


The Incarceration of Elim Garak

by zaan



Series: Unfamiliar Affections [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Claustrophobia, Developing Relationship, Episode: s04e26 Broken Link, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-07-16 06:56:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 29,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16080845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaan/pseuds/zaan
Summary: How is Garak going to handle 6 months in a holding cell?  Even he's not sure.





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place immediately after the episode Broken Link. Garak's time in jail is never addressed in the series, and I thought it would be an interesting idea to explore.
> 
> For the 6 months of Garak's incarceration I have used the stardates listed in Wikipedia for the intervening episodes to estimate where the episodes fit Garak's sentence: Apocalypse Rising takes place around month 2, The Ship around month 3, Nor the Battle to the Strong at month 4, The Assignment at month 5, and Let He Who is Without Sin at month 6.
> 
> Many thanks to all who supported my first work, The Birthday Gift, which has given me the impetus to begin a longer and more ambitious work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately after the episode Broken Link, where Garak tries to take control of the Defiant's weapon systems to kill the Founders (and incidentally everyone else)

Another prison. Another cell. Garak’s life was a blur of cells, of waiting inside, of watching outside, of shuffling in-between. He stood where Odo had left him, torpid and numb, staring at the emptiness.

Idly, mechanically, he lifted the two small boxes of items he had been permitted to gather from his room – one of clothes, the other of personal items – and set them underneath the low steel bed fastened in the corner. He stood. His eyes, listless, lingered on the pale beigeness of the cell. His fingers brushed the cold beige wall. Slowly, he began to circle the perimeter, drifting his fingers along the still cold wall, once round, twice, registering the too few steps, measuring the too small space.

He had been glib with Odo, back in his shop, teasing and light. He had given the impression of a man to whom the events of the past week and the long months ahead were but a mild inconvenience. Now, alone in his cell, he gave up the pretence.

The totality of his sentence, the reality of six months fell sudden and heavy on his mind. He settled as well as he could on the dense, stiff bed. Slowly, he let his head lower into his hands. He dragged his thumbs back and forth across his temples, pushing back his burgeoning emotions.

He was frightened by his failure, frantic at his helplessness. He was beset by visions of Cardassia dead, lifeless, burning. Cold fear gripped him, then tightened into a vicious heated hatred against the Founders.

He urged the images away. _I am disciplined,_ he thought. _I am controlled._ He shivered _._ His head throbbed. _I ‘m cold. I’m tired. Everything hurts._

Other, darker images flared and settled. He grimaced, tightened his muscles, pushed back. _This is not_ _the dungeon of the Tal Shiar,_ he told himself. _This is not the closet in Tain’s study. This is not the rubble of Tzenketh._

A childish wish for comfort tugged at him. He laughed. Who would come? Likely his actions would repel Ziyal and the others on the station who had begun to regard him with acceptance. Julian had not come. Weedy tendrils of despair wound through him. The walls shifted. His breath shook.

Suddenly, he heard the voice of his father lecturing him from outside the closet. _Elim, this is unacceptable,_ Tain said, calmly, to the sobbing child. _You must learn to control yourself. There are worse things in life waiting for you than this closet. Recite. What do you do when you have lost control?_

“I ..” Garak began, faltered.

 _Recite,_ insisted Tain. _What do you do?_

“Begin at the beginning,” Garak whispered. He pulled in a faltering breath. Tain was silent. He continued the recitation in a whisper. “Calm myself. Assess the situation. Develop a plan. Take action. Reassess. Adapt. Regain control.”

He began to take slow, deep breaths. Once, twice, again, and again. He focused on each muscle in turn, relaxing his neck, his shoulders, his hands. Slowly, the tension ebbed; slowly, control returned. _Good,_ he thought, _good. Now, compose yourself. Composure is control._ He sat up, straightened his back, raised his head, folded his hands in his lap. He breathed once, deeply, then sat still, silent, eyes closed, breathing even, calm.

He turned his mind, methodically, to his situation. He had maintained several old Cardassian access codes; he could easily disable the forcefield. He had nowhere to run, but reserving the option of escape calmed him further.

He fell back on the Order’s edicts: protection, the desire to serve; strength, the ability to serve; and intelligence, the knowledge of how to serve . For Cardassia, his lodestone and his anchor, guiding him and grounding him.

He would combat the claustrophobia, isolation, and boredom. He would tolerate the chilled temperature and the brightness of the lights. He would train his body and his mind. He would salvage his connections.

He realised he had little knowledge of Starfleet’s prison regulations, little idea of what to expect. This, then was the starting point.

He stood, retrieved some personal items from the box, and went into the adjoining washroom. He disliked it intensely, the beige and extra brightness as much as the cramped space, but it didn’t matter. He had only to make himself presentable. He did this briskly, put the items away neatly in their box, then commed for Odo.

As the shapeshifter appeared in the corridor, Garak adjusted his demeanour to one of humble contrition. “Ah, Odo, my good man. I do _so_ apologize for troubling you,” he said.

Odo stopped in front of the cell and folded his arms.

“If you think you can comm security every time you’re bored, Garak, think again.”

“Oh, my dear constable, I would _never_ bother you if it weren’t of the _utmost_ importance.”

“I bet.”

“I merely wanted to request a copy of the Federation’s prison rules and regulations.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“But of course! I take this punishment very seriously, Odo. You’ll see, I’ll be an ideal prisoner.”

“I sincerely doubt that. And stop looking wounded, Garak, I don’t buy it for a minute.” He stared at Garak. Garak blinked his innocence and waited.

“All right,” said Odo. “Likely you’re just looking for ways to cause more problems, but you’d do that anyway. And, however ill-advised it might be to give them to you, I suppose it _is_ your right. But be warned, Garak: I’ll be watching you.”

Garak inclined his head politely and offered a small, Cheshire cat grin to Odo’s retreating form.

 


	2. Day Seven

Garak lay on his cot reading. He made it a point to be up and dressed before the guards arrived at 07:00 with something poor, bland, and unpalatable for breakfast. Prison replicators were programmed for efficiency - recipes tolerated by a wide range of species – rather than taste. Garak was careful to express no preferences, for although most of the guards were professionally unhelpful, some were actively so, and if they knew Garak disliked something, doubtless they would bring more of it.

He shivered slightly. The air was always chillier in the morning, and he found himself wishing once again for a warmer blanket. He pulled his existing blanket up higher and refocused on his task. It was his third time reading through _Federation Prison Rules and Regulations ed. xxiv ,_ and he had it nearly committed to memory.

He thought of the lawbooks of Cardassia, elegant and precise, with regret. The Federation lacked style and finesse, and their strange and contradictory philosophy puzzled and irritated him. How could they claim that prison was for rehabilitation and not punishment only to subsequently and unironically list 47 punitive measures for misbehaviour? Garak snorted. He didn’t care how they clothed it; it was punishment, plain and simple. But apparently his opinion was irrelevant; according to another strange piece of Federation ideology, only sick people committed crimes. _How convenient,_ he thought. _At least on Cardassia we allow the guilty their guilt._

As he had expected, most of the rules and regulations were banal: bans on weapons and computer access, restrictions on freedoms and movements, limits on visitors and activities. Occasionally he came across peculiar, presumably old and archaic rules that seemed purposeless. For example, he was allowed only five books in his cell, excepting religious texts (as religion was ‘ _a vital part_ ’ of his life and the Federation would not try ‘ _in any way_ ’ to change his religious convictions). He considered the possibilities. It might be amusing to argue the point with Odo. Odo, having an uncomplicated relationship with rules, would naturally refuse to give ground but Garak’s trump would be the claim that all classic Cardassian works were de facto religious texts. It was true enough, and guls knew he needed the distraction.

No one had come to provide respite from his own mind. He was used to solitude, but isolation was different. For the first few days, no matter how zealously he restrained his emotions, the arrival of visiting hours had been a source of hope, then of disappointment. Nobody came, except the guards.  _No visitors,_ he corrected himself. He still hoped to see Julian in his official capacity.

According to the regulations he would receive bi-weekly medical visits and mandatory counseling sessions, which were to be provided either by the prison’s doctor or by their designate. The question was, which would he warrant? Julian or a nurse?

He heard the steps of an approaching guard, Sorkin. Garak put away his reading and sat up, setting the blanket to one side. He watched as the guard placed the breakfast tray into the slot before pulling out his phaser.

“On your feet,” he said.

Sorkin lowered the forcefield, phaser aimed at Garak, and motioned for him to stand against the far wall. He meandered around the room. He pulled off the bed covers then tipped one of the storage containers onto its side and rifled through the contents with his boot.

Garak stood still, his face expressionless, internally reciting the regulation:

‘ _Any staff member may search an inmate's room for contraband . These searches will be unannounced and random. Your person is subject to search at any time by any staff member. Refusal to be searched will result in disciplinary action.’_

Although his meagre possessions had been searched several times over, none of the guards had yet been bold enough to search Garak himself. _I_ _f they do,_ Garak thought, _they may find themselves regretting it._

Sorkin kept Garak standing awhile until, bored with the lack of reaction, he left. Garak supposed he could report the guard – although searches were allowed, Odo would dislike such an abuse of power - but he preferred to deal with such matters himself.

Garak retrieved the now-cold porridge and retreated to his corner. On the first day he had mapped out each of the security cameras. Excepting the toilet ( _and how foolish of the Federation to give a prisoner privacy anywhere_ ) this corner was the only blind spot. He sat there often, partly for privacy and partly to put the guards at ease. The first few times he had disappeared from their screens they had come; now they didn’t bother.

He ate only a few mouthfuls and put the congealed mess aside. He was tired. Unused to the ambient noise and strange surroundings, he had slept even less than usual. He rubbed a hand over his eye ridges. His exhaustion and the brightness brought on frequent headaches. He had not requested medication. He would not show weakness, and he would not ask Julian to come until he saw whether Julian would come on his own.

Thankfully, he had had no claustrophobic attacks, but underlying the tiredness and pain was a low, persistent restlessness unrelieved by exercise, meditation or relaxation.

More frustrating was his inability to act. He needed to talk to Odo but could not. Only the guards came. He had asked, first, directly for what he wanted and then, when denied, to speak to Odo, but without success. The guards always gave the same reply; they would pass his requests on to Odo. Perhaps they did, though he thought it unlikely. He had tried the comm once or twice, but it was never Odo who came. He would then ask for him, and receive the same reply.

 _Patience,_ he told himself. _Odo will come. Or he won’t, and you will come up with new plans_.

He forced himself to stir. He had set aside this time (he would not call it visiting hours) for exercises focused on stamina, balance and endurance. Slowly, he worked his way through the positions. He had just settled into his last position when he heard the footsteps of two people approaching. He glanced up, then looked down quickly to hide his surprise, pretending ignorance of their approach. When Ziyal called out to him, he straightened and feigned the surprise he had just suppressed.

“Ziyal, my dear,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Ziyal blushed and murmured as the guard lowered the forcefield, waving her inside. Garak waited until the guard had reactivated the forcefield and left before turning to Ziyal, palm raised. As she pressed her hand against his in greeting, gratitude and happiness filled him. _Really, Elim,_ Tain chided him, _to be so affected by so little._

There was nowhere for them to sit except on the small bed, so Garak led her there and they perched awkwardly on it. “It is very kind of you to take the time to come see me,” Garak began.

“I’ve been trying to see you all week, Garak.” Ziyal declared, her eyes intense. “I’ve come every morning, and every morning I was told to leave.”

“By whom?” asked Garak, though he knew the answer. “Odo?”

“No,” Ziyal admitted. “The guards. And they might not have let me see you at all if I hadn’t threatened to go to Captain Sisko! They said that ‘dangerous offenders’ didn’t have the right to visitors.” Her eyes flickered with indignation.

Garak sidestepped that conversation, and instead asked her if she had seen Odo.

“No. At least, not in security.”

“Oh? That sounds unlike the constable. I imagine the Captain gave him some time off to adjust to his new situation as a humanoid.”

Ziyal wrinkled her nose. “I’ve seen him in Quarks. Drinking.”

“Ah,” said Garak, absorbing the news. “Perhaps he is not adapting well, or rather, perhaps he is adapting too well.”

“Well, he needs to do something,” said Ziyal, dismissing Odo’s suffering with the casual indifference of the young. “It’s not right that he’s ignoring you. Has he even looked in on you?”

“My dear, I assure you I am perfectly fine and well cared for. I have everything I need. At least, I do now that you are here.” She glowed and bowed her head.

“And now,” said Garak, directing the conversation away from himself, “I’m relying on you to fill me in on everything that I’ve missed in the last week.”

Ziyal complied eagerly. She was an enthusiastic if not keen observer and tried to think of things that might interest him. She never mentioned the reason for his incarceration, or people’s reaction to it, and he realised she did not think of it, did not even see it or, by extension, him. A bittersweet thought came to him. _Even if Julian hates me,_ he thought, _at least it is real._

Still, her presence comforted him. It was good to sit by her, to see her smile, to enjoy her company, to bask in her enjoyment of his. They talked easily until it was time for her to go, she promising to come again the next day.

“Ziyal,” said Garak, as she commed for the guard. “May I ask you to do me a favour?”

“Of course, anything.”

He explained what he wanted, and though he could see it confused her, she readily agreed. He thanked her, but offered no further explanation.

 _What,_ Ziyal thought as she left, _does he want with Quark?_

 


	3. Day Twenty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References the episode Apocalypse Rising, where Gowron is suspected of being a changeling

Odo surveyed the Cardassian critically as he ate, not entirely happy with what he was seeing. The fatigue he had noted earlier was deepening, the pallor of his skin and the redness in his eyes now joined by a faint tremor in his hands, imperceptible to all but the most acute observer. His scales were dull and beginning to crack in places, and the uneaten meals were showing in the thin lines of his face, the ill fit of his tunic.

“You’re not eating very much,” he remarked.

“Neither are you,” replied Garak. His face was calm, but he fixed Odo with a challenging look that clearly told him where to stick his solicitation.

Odo grunted and returned to picking at his meal.   Since returning to duty after his enforced week of leave, Odo had made it a habit to join Garak every morning for breakfast. He considered it an effective method of preventing trouble. It was a tactic he employed with Quark; seeing someone every day made it possible to observe small changes and behaviours that would not be evident with less frequent contact. The unacknowledged truth was that he also found Garak comforting. Whereas Sisko, Kira and the others tried to treat him no differently than before, Garak succeeded. Garak provided a taste of the normalcy that had suddenly and irrevocably disappeared from his life.

“At least I have an excuse,” continued Garak. “You can order whatever you like from the Replimat, whereas I am subjected to the worst consequences of Federation blandness.” He snorted. “And you say prison isn’t about punishment.”

“ _I_ said no such thing, the Federation did. Of course you’re being punished, Garak. Deservedly so, I might add,” Odo bristled.  He took a shaky breath. These sudden and frequent shifts of emotion he experienced as a Solid unnerved him; he had no experience with them, no idea how to handle them. He looked morosely down at his food, then pushed his tray aside.

“We all have our burden to bear, be it innocence or guilt,” said Garak.   He gestured at Odo’s discarded tray. "Are you not hungry, or do you dislike the taste?”

“I like the taste - or rather, I like experiencing taste. It’s the sensation of eating I still find somewhat ... disturbing,” Odo reflected.

“It’s only been a few weeks,” said Garak. “Did you really think you would fully adapt to being a Solid that quickly?”

“On some level, I still believe I _am_ a Changeling, despite the innumerable proofs to the contrary.”

Garak remembered this truth from his own exile. Not a denial of his situation, but a complete inability to believe in it. For months he would wake up as if everything were normal, as if this were just another assignment that would end. When the belief had finally faded, he could not decide if was a relief or a loss.

“You know, Odo,” said Garak, “I never liked tailoring when I compared it to gardening. I missed the fresh air, seeing things grow, the quiet.”

“And now you're a happy and contented tailor, I suppose?” 

Garak smiled and spread his hands, “And now I am in a holding cell with nothing to do ... which brings me back to my request.”

“Of course it does.” Odo growled. This time he lets the flash of irritation ignite into anger. “I’ve already told you no, Garak. I’ve said no every day for the last two weeks! You can’t work in your shop, and you can’t work in your cell, so stop asking!”

 _Such emotion, Odo,_ thought Garak. _How unlike you. I wonder, how angry_ _can_ _you get?_ Despite the occasional backdraft, Garak’s fascination with setting fires never faltered. “Sewing is relaxing. Don’t you care about my health?”

“That’s Doctor Bashir’s concern, if he cared to show any,” Odo snapped. “Tell me, has he been by at all? I don’t think I saw his name in the visitor log. And isn’t Nurse Lai doing your medical checks?”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll see the good doctor sooner or later,” Garak said with practiced non-chalance. _My, my, Odo – who knew you had such teeth?_

“Don’t be too sure about that. Did you know he’s assigned your case to the holo counsellor instead of taking it on himself?”

Garak gave a non-committal smile in response. The news was unwelcome, but he locked his reaction to it away. “Regardless of who provides it, I’ll be sure to bring up your lack of regard for your own regulations. Regulation nine says -”

“I’m quite familiar with the regulations, Garak. Don’t start quoting your right and obligation to work to me. I’m perfectly willing to let you work, but not if it represents a risk to security.”

“A risk to security!  Really, Constable.”

“You think I don’t know you have weapons hidden in your shop?”

“And my sewing tools? What possible objection could you have to them?”

“Do you know how much damage could be done with your cloth cutter? I rather think you do.”

Garak gave a smile of silk and steel. “Do you really think I need a cloth cutter to be dangerous, Odo?”

A cough interrupted them. _Ah well_ , thought Garak. _All good things must come to an end_.

Odo whirled around. “What is it Quark?” he snarled.

“Whoa, don’t take it out on me because you’re always in a bad mood these days. I’m just here to visit Garak.”

“Oh, really? Weren’t you here last week as well? What could the two of you _possibly_ have to talk about?”

“Nothing to get your knickers in a knot over. I’m helping Garak look after business while he’s otherwise occupied. For a modest fee, of course.” He turned to Garak, waving a PADD and a small silver box. “I’ve got Leeta in the shop, and a list here of off-the-rack stuff she’s sold. If you let me know what you want today, I can have a new shipment in early next week. Plus I got those Delavian chocolates you wanted.”

“Let me look at those,” demanded Odo. He checked the PADD thoroughly but could find nothing out of the ordinary and grudgingly gave it back to Quark. He sniffed at the chocolates and looked at Garak. “These aren’t permitted. Since you’re so fond of the regulations, Garak, you should already know that you aren’t allowed outside food.”

“But food from the commissary is permitted.”

“We don’t have a commissary.”

“A dereliction of my rights I might be willing to overlook.”

“Fine.” Odo was tired of arguing. He felt drained. His head hurt. He couldn’t get used to the frailty and – irony of ironies – the instability of being a Solid. He both regretted what he had said to Garak and blamed him for it. The chocolates were a small concession. Perhaps he should get Quark to provide Garak’s regular meals. The cells weren’t designed to accommodate long-term prisoners, and Garak was certainly not thriving on the prison fare.

Odo lowered the forcefield. “All right, Quark, you can go in. But no funny business – I’ll be watching ... _and_ listening.”

“Showing your hand, Odo?” said Garak.

“Consider it my ounce of prevention.”

“Finally,” said Quark. “I do have a bar to run, you know.” He passed Garak the PADD.

Garak ran through the report. He really had asked Quark to help him with his business. He couldn’t afford to let the shop sit empty for six months, nor let more customers than were inevitable switch to competitors. Thanks to Odo, he could not do any alterations or custom work, but he could at least work on designs and order in new stock. He typed out his order and returned the PADD to Quark. He sighed theatrically.

“You know, Quark, the hardest thing about being locked up is I’ve no idea what the current fashions are. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking ‘Garak, it’s only been three weeks.’ But I tell you, in the world of fashion, Quark, much can happen in three weeks. I’ve no idea what my customers’ needs are, what’s going on in their lives – to say nothing of the styles from home.”

On Quark’s first visit, Garak had alluded to his need to keep apprised of fashion trends – or, for less literal speakers, local and global politics, especially where Cardassia was involved.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Not that I know anything about fashion, but you’d be surprised at all the small goings on that happen. Lots of romances – did you know Narla and Woods got together?”

“You don’t say.”

“It’s the war, makes some people jumpy and some people horny.”

“And how are the senior staff holding up under the stress?”

“Well, I did hear that the Captain was thinking of taking a little trip back home.”

“Really? He’s not concerned about his ship getting attacked?”

“I don’t think so. He’s not happy with the war, mind you. I’ve heard he thinks it’s all Gowron’s fault – that he’s too malleable. You know, not as solid and dependable as he used to be.”

“How ... interesting.”

“You’re telling me.” Quark got up. “I’ve got to go but don’t worry – looks like you have another, prettier visitor.”

Ziyal, escorted by a guard, was approaching the cell, her artwork bundled under her arm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said.

“I’ve got to get back to the bar anyway. Time is money.” said Quark. “See you, Garak.”

As soon as Ziyal was let into the cell, she settled on the bed and pulled out her sketch book and pencil.

“Ziyal, we talked about this,” said Garak.

“Please, Garak. You know I need to practice, and I feel so self conscious doing it where there are people about, and Nerys is too busy to sit for me often.”

Garak sighed. He was intrinsically uncomfortable with being observed, much less recorded, but it would obviate the need to talk and allow him time to think about Quark’s news.

“All right,“ he reluctantly acquiesced, “So long as you make me taller.”

Ziyal laughed and began to draw.

Garak settled in his corner. Could he trust what Quark was saying? Quark had an uncanny knack for finding out what was going on, and the two had often exchanged notes in the past, but could he trust a single source of information?

_Sisko is on his way to Starfleet Command, not about an attack, but with the suspicion – the knowledge? - that Gowron is a changeling. But how could the Founders have replaced him? And how could no one have noticed?_

He was certain of one thing; somehow, he needed to get into his shop.

 


	4. Day Forty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote Garak is trying to remember is from Arthur Koestler

Garak stabbed the guard, then raced down the corridor, shouts and alarms scrambling in his wake. He slipped into an access shaft and went down; they would expect him to go forward or up, toward the hangars. He emerged in a nearly deserted part of the station. Searching quickly, he found and eased himself into a deeply shadowed alcove. He had two choices -

The hollow voice of the computer interrupted him. “Time remaining: 30 minutes.”

Garak’s first thought was how to disable the auto-destruct. His second was to marvel that he had become so deeply immersed in the mission that he had forgotten where he was.

“Computer, end program.”

Garak’s opponents vanished, leaving him alone in the holodeck. Regulation twenty-three stipulated he was allowed access to a physical fitness facility three times a week; on DS9, this meant the holodeck. He was glad of it. It was a much more enjoyable way of keeping in shape, both mentally and physically. He looked forward to these days, to the sheer physical effort, to the focus, the simplicity. During these programs, which he had slowly and painstakingly programmed himself over the years, he felt more alive, more real, than he often did ghosting around the station in his preposterous tailor’s garb. He knew it was an illusion, but the comfort it brought was real, just as the misery it brought when it ended was real. _Nothing is more sad than the death of an illusion_ , he thought, unable to remember the source. One of Julian’s books, undoubtedly. The thought only added weight to the dark mood that pursued him. He shook it off.

“Computer, initiate program Ziyal One.” As the rock walls and steaming baths shimmered into life around him, he stripped off his tunic. His habit was to spend the last half hour in the sauna program that Ziyal had kindly made available to him, dIsinclined as he was to appear out of breath, in grimy clothing and with unkempt hair before the guards. Naked, he stepped into a deep pool of scalding water. As he settled, the water lapping over his ridges, he groaned in pleasure. The chill that had already begun to recede now melted into a sultry heat that seeped into his core.

He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, inhaling the steam deep into his lungs. He wondered idly if the guards had overlooked the regulations and tried to spy on him yet. Well, let them try. With the number of encryptions he’d put put into the program, he doubted they’d get far. Odo stood a better chance, but Garak knew he wouldn’t try. It wasn’t a respect of privacy – Odo was an inveterate and unrepentant snoop – but a fear of it. After a few unfortunate but memorable encounters, Odo was now firmly and irrevocably convinced that Solids, whatever they professed, only used holosuites for sex. Garak smiled to himself – if he thought Odo was watching he would indulge just for the fun of seeing his ill-concealed distaste at breakfast next day.

Leisurely, he swirled his hands back and forth to make gentle waves in the water. As usual when he let himself relax, melancholy tugged at him with unwelcome thoughts. Forty-seven days. A fraction of his sentence. _Focus on the positive,_ he thought. _I’ve managed the claustrophobia._ He heard Tain’s unwelcome, mocking rejoinder. _Barely, Elim, barely._ Garak frowned. _I’_ _m making headway with_ _Odo, Ziyal – even Nand and a few others have dropped by._ _I have Quark supplying me with information._ Tain scoffed. _Really, Elim? That’s the level of quality you aspire to these days? Second hand information and Federation ‘friends’?_ Garak persisted, willing the voice to face. _I’ll get access to the shop, even if Odo and Julian both stand in my way._ Tain laughed. _Don’t be so sure of yourself, Elim; certainty never answers. What’s that charming phrase your doctor is so fond of? Pride cometh before the fall? Ironic, isn’t it? Who knew you had any pride left, or anywhere left to fall?_

Garak had no response. Tain’s voice laughed quietly in triumph and faded. Garak wondered bitterly if he would ever be free of him, terrified and appalled that some part of him still, always, did not wish to be free, wished for what would never be, something, anything, if not love, if not affection, then some semblance of approval or appreciation.

When the guards arrived, he was composed as he he stepped out onto the Promenade. There were no longer the stares and furious whispers that had greeted him the first time he had been taken from his cell. After a month and a half, people had become accustomed to his altered situation, some even unaccountably nodding to him as he passed.

Garak quickly and efficiently scanned the area, absorbing the mood. People were walking briskly and purposefully, but not hurriedly. Small groups of people were chatting, catching up on station gossip. He saw Ziyal in a corner talking to Jake Sisko, and in a back corner, Kira gesticulating forcefully at Odo. And then he saw him.

There, crossing the Promenade. Julian. Garak checked the urge to stop but could not help staring, waiting. He was aware of Ziyal’s gaze on him, knew he should turn away, but he was determined to see Julian’s reaction.

He wished he hadn’t. Julian coolly turned his gaze away and kept walking. Garak pressed on, his eyes held resolutely forward.


	5. More Day Forty Seven

After editing the introductory page of his Changeling microphysiology paper four times, with the quality deteriorating each time, Julian banged the delete key and tossed the PADD on the counter. None of his attempts to stop thinking about Garak had succeeded. When he had beamed up from the Founder’s world, he was told what Garak had done and that Garak was asking to see him. Julian had refused.

Having resolved to sacrifice the friendship, Julian meticulously severed each connection. He assigned Garak’s medical care to his team, he discouraged his friends from mentioning Garak, and he discarded the gifts Garak had given him: the holosuite program, the chestnut sweater, the kotra board, and the legion of Cardassian novels. He even studied the prison schedule to avoid chance encounters.

Julian excised Garak from his life as cleanly as he excised tumours. He didn’t think of Garak; he didn’t even dream of him. He oversaw his medical care with professional detachment. He regarded his former feelings with wonder, even disgust.

He now met Leeta for lunch; the conversation was less electric but more genial. He congratulated himself on his choice. Leeta was the antithesis of Garak. Where the tailor was artful, argumentative and viperous, Leeta was simple, sympathetic, and kind.

After the first month, he stopped checking Garak’s schedule. Continuing to avoid him felt both ridiculous and unnecessary. It was bound to happen; if not now, then when Garak was released. He no longer feared meeting him; he was indifferent to it. Arrogantly, he declared his cure complete.

Then he saw him.

He had been heading to the Replimat, head down, thinking about his paper, when he had chanced to look up. He saw Garak a fraction of a second before Garak saw him. In that second there was no disgust, no indifference. No, he felt drenching relief and hot shards of exhilaration. Memories tumbled into his head: holding the smooth-scaled hand, hearing the cultured intonation of his voice, seeing the sapphire sting of his eyes.

His instinct pulled him forward. Instead, as he felt Garak’s eyes focus on him, he wrenched his gaze aside and preserved his forward momentum. He walked away from him; he didn’t look back.

It was his only victory. The run-in haunted him; he could not exorcise it. He alternately berated and lamented his weakness, this primordial, magnetic allure that Garak aroused in him. He fought it, he always fought it, just as he always asked himself why, just as he always stifled the subconscious whisper that threatened an answer.

A cough at the door interrupted him. Julian quickly shifted into doctor mode, glancing up with a concerned smile.

“Yes, Odo? Can I help you with something?”

“I’m not here to talk about myself. I’m here to talk about Garak. I have to tell you, doctor, I’m not pleased. I don’t need you making my job harder.”

Julian recoiled slightly and sat up more stiffly. “Excuse me? What have I done?”

“You approved a work order for him.”

“I approved the recommendation of the counselor, yes.” Julian said in a careful tone.

“The holo counselor” Odo snorted. “It’s unacceptable. You and I both know that Garak is a liar. He has an ulterior motive for this request. I want you to dismiss the recommendation.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Odo, I can’t divulge -”

“You don’t have to; I know what it says well enough.”

“Odo, it’s a violation of -”

“Spare me your sanctimony, doctor. I didn’t break into your medical records. I assumed it was full of the same nonsense Garak has been spouting for weeks - how Cardassians need to work, how Cardassians need to contribute to the community, how he needs to do something wholesome to cleanse himself. Please.”

“I’m sure he was in fine form,” said Julian, unable to prevent a small smile and a remembrance of Garak once explaining to him why Christmas cheer was dangerous and immoral.

“You could say that,” Odo admitted.

“Besides, it doesn’t matter. You may be right. In fact, I’m sure you are right. But I don’t get to override the counselor’s judgement just because of how I feel.”

Odo weighed his words. “Perhaps you’re right, doctor. Still, it bothers me.”

“Odo, my concern is his medical care, your concern is security. If you really and truly feel that this is an unacceptable security risk, then you are well within your rights to refuse it. But I have to ask - is it really a security concern? We both know Garak could escape if he chose. If he’s hell bent on causing harm, you’d have a tough time stopping him.”

“Because I’m a solid now, you mean.” Odo growled, turning away from Julian. Odo knew it was true – he was useless. His confidence arose from his abilities and was taken away along with them. He hoped he was not being petty and unjust. He hoped that his fundamental nature had not been altered along with his cells.

“No,” said Julian, laying a hand on his arm, “Because he’s Garak. Is that what this is about, Odo? We’ve focused on your physical adjustments to being a solid, but not the emotional ones. How are you coping?”

Odo shook off Julian’s arm and ignored the question. “Do you know what I admire about Garak, doctor? His ability to leave a person alone.”

“I’m sorry, Odo, but you’re my friend – I won’t leave you alone if I see you suffering.”

“You don’t seem to have any problems leaving Garak alone. You haven’t visited. You send a nurse to do his medical checks. You subject him to a Federation holo counselor. ”

“Nurse Lai is highly qualified. She takes scans; I check the scans myself. I never counsel clients, but I check those reports. If there was anything – anything - alarming or life-threatening, I would intervene. If, Allah forbid, Garak should ask for help, he would receive it.”

“He’s suffering.”

“I don’t doubt it, Odo. From what I’ve read, Cardassians don’t do well in captivity. But short of pills and treatments that Garak would certainly refuse, there’s nothing we can do.”

“Except support him.”

Julian shook his head in what seemed to Odo more like confusion or frustration than decisiveness. He turned his back on Odo.

“If you’re able to do that, Constable, then you’re a better man than I am.”


	6. Day Fifty Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the episode Apocalypse Rising, where Dukat takes Sisko and his crew into Klingon space to unmask Gowron as a changeling, which is why Sisko wants Garak's help and why Dukat is on the station.

Garak drew his needle through the felt in neat, measured strokes. As he pulled the tip meditatively through the fabric, he considered the motivation behind Captain Sisko’s desire to consult with him. His mind ambled down myriad paths but arrived inevitably at the same destination: the High Council.

He had warned Cardassia. Under Odo’s watchful eyes, he had grouped fabrics, loaded sketches, and selected an assortment of instruments to bring back to his cell. He had updated his inventory and discreetly, dead under his keeper’s vigilant nose, sent a coded message to Cardassia.

The system pleased him with its simplicity and cunning. Over the years, he had built a complex dictionary of messages and words disguised as colours, fabrics and supplies that lay embedded within his actual inventory. A simple, innocuous order to his favourite supplier delivered to his contacts a largesse of crucial information. The confirmation of the order held their response.

Garak contemplated their last message. They had acknowledged his warnings and agreed with his recommendation to quietly search for Changelings within the Detapa Council, Central Command, and what was left of the Order. Against his recommendation, they had decided to approach the Federation. Now the Federation, under the guise of Captain Sisko, was going to approach him. He hoped that Cardassia’s disregard for him, their decision to all but brand him as their informant, would not destroy his usefulness.

He reached the end of the fabric, reached for his scissors, and cut the thread. There was nothing more he could do for now. He wrapped the unprofitable thoughts together and buried them. He tried to clear his mind but found the undercurrent of his thoughts muddied, flowing toward the eternal source of his frustration: Julian.

Julian. Almost two months now, and he had seen him only that once. He found himself fretting whenever his mind fell idle, calculating if there were any chance, any prospect of restoring the fractured relationship. Julian’s absence and Julian’s silence splintered his confidence, but though he would sacrifice his hope he would not abandon it. Julian had looked away. He didn’t know what lay at the bottom of it, whether it was contempt or confusion, whether he should feel despair or hope. He wanted to feel anything but this wild surging between the two. If he were damned, let him be damned; he was done existing on the edges of purgatory.

Still, he was undecided on how to proceed. Although he could request medical assistance, or stage a medical emergency, he recoiled at the childishness of such a charade. He would not so blatantly betray his objective. He would wait for an opportunity, and he would take it. He could rely on his patience and his persistence.

Even Tain had admired these traits. Cheerfully, but without fondness, he had christened him _Alem’ka_ , the common name of an ugly and unkilllable weed, thus offering not only an uncertain tribute but a disfigurement of his name. He was certain this was how Starfleet viewed him, an unrootable intruder marring the picturesque garden of the Federation. Not Sisko, if he were fair. It was true that Sisko sat at his desk, a judge weighing your soul with your words, but it was in the cause of utility, not condemnation.

Garak considered their last conversation, when Sisko had sat in actual judgment of his crimes.

****

Sisko sat silent and implacable, hands stiff on the desk, body rigid in the chair, eyes affixed to the offender, waiting for Garak to speak. Garak lounged in his seat, playing with a loose thread on his tunic, idly evaluating Sisko’s performance. He was amused in a tired kind of way - he even rather admired the man’s style - but Garak was an old hand at the game. It was Sisko, inevitably, who spoke first.

“I can’t believe I gave you the opportunity. I should have known what you were planning all along, should have known that you were plotting your revenge.”

“Really, Captain, you make me sound like the mad villain in one of Doctor Bashir’s spy adventures. I assure you my motives were not based on world domination, damaged idealism nor personal revenge.”

“Then what were they based on?”

Garak considered his answer, his natural reticence warring with the necessity of keeping the Federation reluctant allies of Cardassia.

“Contrary to what you believe, Captain, I didn’t plan it. I came to ask the Founders about the ships, just as I said.”

“And?”

“And I asked. And do you know what the Founder told me, Captain? Not just that the crew were dead, but that Cardassia was dead, that Cardassians were dead, that we were all of us doomed from the moment of the attack.”

“I see.”

“Do you, Captain? Because it’s not just Cardassia, it’s the Alpha Quadrant. It’s us or them. There is no negotiation, no peace. We are a threat. We surrender or we fight.”

Sisko looked out of the viewport, to the black space where the wormhole snaked its way into the Gamma quadrant. Garak let him think, waiting with him in the silence. Finally, Sisko turned back to him, and Garak knew his sentence had been set.

“I’m charging you with being in a restricted area of a starship. That’s a local matter and will be handled locally.” He paused and gave a grim smile. “The Dominion has the board set up in their favour, and I find myself unwilling to sacrifice any piece before its time. You’re right about the war, Garak. It’s coming, and I intend to win.”

****

This memory was foremost in Garak’s mind as the Captain was let into his cell. Garak stood. There were no seats, other than the unserviceable cot.

“Captain.” He inclined his head politely, amused that Sisko copied the mannerism precisely as he returned the greeting.

“Mr. Garak.”

“To what do I owe the honour of your visit?”

“I confess myself curious to see how you were getting on. I hope you’re not being mistreated.”

“Oh? Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters,” Sisko sputtered.

“Why? If this is a punishment, then I deserve to be punished. I’m sick of all this talk about rehabilitation – a nice euphemism for coercion, if you ask me – which of course you won’t. Frankly, I’d rather you just beat me every day than pretend any of this is for my benefit.”

Sisko opened and closed his mouth, trying and rejecting several rebuttals, all of which would lead him down a rabbit hole he didn’t have the time nor inclination to explore. He passed a hand over his eyes and sighed. “I shoud know better than to try to exchange pleasantries with you.”

“On the contrary, I’m very pleasant.”

“And very well informed.”

He chose a face that displayed frank disbelief. “From in here, Captain?“

“I’ve learned not to underestimate you, Garak.” Sisko paused, then shunted the conversation onto a new track. “You should know that Dukat is on the station. It seems that the Cardassians conveniently have something we need. I believe in coincidences, Garak, but I don’t trust them.”

“Sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence.”

“Be that as it may, I find myself in a position I dislike: having to rely on Gul Dukat.”

“You have my sympathies.”

“I’d like your assistance.”

“Oh?”

“I need to know if Dukat’s abilities match his bravado.”

Garak laughed. “At what? He’s a sub-par lover - I have that from a very reputable source. On the other hand, he’s superb at self-aggrandization. It really depends on what abilities you’re interested in. If you were looking for, oh, I don’t know, if he could handle a ship, say?”

“For example.”

“For example. Then I would say that he’s an excellent pilot, an excellent shot and not one to lose his head in a crisis - although he is apt to lose other people’s heads, crisis or not. You might want to remember that - if you were ever in such a situation, that is.”

Sisko smiled. “For once, Garak, we’re in perfect agreement.”

He signaled for the guard.

 


	7. More Day Fifty Four

Garak was unsurprised when Dukat sauntered down the corridor, at his ease, ostentatiously stopping and laughing with the young Bajoran guard, Jameesha, at his side who neither returned his laughter nor shared his ease.

As they approached, Garak heard Jameesha state – obviously for the third or fourth time – that visiting hours were over. Dukat waved her off.

“My dear, you do know who I am? I am here at Captain Sisko’s personal invitation. I don’t have time for trifles. I’m on a very important mission, and I need to speak to Garak.”

Her uncertain glance found Garak.

“It’s quite all right,” said Garak, dispensing his sunniest and most comforting smile. “We’re old friends.”

She hesitated, then permitted Dukat to enter the cell. Although she retreated to give them privacy, Garak noted that she did not return to the security desk as was her custom. _So much the better,_ he thought.

Dukat strutted in. Garak fought the urge to punch him in the gut. _Bombastic ass._ He gritted his teeth and turned his back on Dukat, guiding him to the far corner. Dukat was too stupid or too unobservant to notice the suspiciousness of such behaviour.

Instead, as Garak reached the corner and turned to face him, Dukat crossed his arms over his inflated chest and drawled, “Well, well, well, how the mighty have fallen. Again.”

“Charming as ever, Dukat.”

“Outwitted by humans. How embarrassing. Considerate of them to put you in this cage for viewing, though. Have they taught you any tricks? Can you roll over and play dead?”

Garak smiled angelically and said, in the most vulgar street vernacular he knew, “Sh’teth ma.”

Dukat was a parody of shock, eyes wide, mouth slack. Cardassians exulted in their elegance, in their elaborate verbal dances. No Cardassian of repute would condescend to swear, particularly the gutter filth Garak had flung at him. Dukat’s scales flushed dark and his fists jerked.

“I should have known you were born in the gutter,” he sneered. “I hope you rot in your cold, miserable hole.”

Garak smirked and leaned in towards Dukat’s ear. “Not so cold,” he whispered. “After all, I have the beautiful Ziyal to keep me warm.”

Dukat roared. His fist cracked into Garak’s jaw, hard and fast. Garak staggered. A second punch battered his skull into the wall. Garak’s vision exploded. He heard the guard shouting. He felt his ribs shatter.

Suddenly Dukat was gone. Groaning, Garak sank to one knee. Gingerly wrapping an arm around his rib cage, he looked up, reveling in the sight and sound of a partially stunned Dukat being ignominiously dragged down the corridor.

A moment later Odo was beside him. “Are you all right? Can you stand?”

Garak nodded and was helped to his feet. He let out a shaky breath and steadied himself against the wall.

“Come on,” said Odo, “Let’s get you to the infirmary.”

Odo ushered Garak across the Promenade, his hand securely fastened to Garak’s upper arm. As they passed, they generated a soft wave of whispers and stares.

Julian was standing next to his desk, scrolling through a mass of data, a slight frown on his face. Garak tensed as Julian looked up. He was prepared for the encounter, for the sudden touch of their eyes, but Julian was not. Garak kept his own countenance calm. In his eyes he knew that Julian would see nothing but the glare of the harsh lights.  In Julian's eyes, Garak saw a fluttery burst of surprise and delight that was quickly suppressed under a weight of disapproval and professionalism. So rapidly had the emotions ceded ground, Garak almost questioned their existence. 

“What happened?” said Julian, snapping his eyes to Odo.

“He had an altercation with Dukat in his cell.”

The surprise resurfaced. “Dukat? Dukat attacked Garak and won? Seriously?”

“I was wondering the same thing, doctor.” said Odo. “I have a hard time picturing Garak as the innocent victim.”

“I am standing here, you know,” groused Garak. “Did it occur to you that as a convicted criminal my self-defense might be misconstrued as aggression? I see I could have saved myself a beating, since apparently I’m guilty no matter what I do. And still in need of medical attention, as you seem to have forgotten.”

Julian looked at Odo and raised his eyebrows questioningly. Odo shrugged.

“I’ll take it from here, Odo.” said Julian, shepherding Garak into the treatment room. “I’ll comm you when I’m done. Sit there,” he said, waving behind him to one of the bio beds.

Garak eased himself gently on the bed, gasping softly as he felt his ribs shift. Julian shot a glance back at him, then finished loading his tray and brought it over to the table beside the bio bed. He picked up the scanner. Looking down at the readings, he said, “I can’t believe you managed to get into a fight in a holding cell.”

The tone was not playful, but dismissive. Garak proffered gentle banter in return. “Is that admiration in your voice, doctor?” he teased, letting a hint of self-deprecation warm the words further.

“No, disappointment,” Julian said flatly.

Garak swallowed, the blood in his mouth bitter as it went down. Bafflement and hurt fell leadenly in his stomach, churning into anger. He had hoped for Julian’s understanding, once the initial anger had worn thin. He was prepared for awkwardness, anger, even fear – not this cold condescension. _I’m not some riding hound crawling back on its belly for you to kick, doctor._

“At least we’re in accord,” he bit back.

“Don’t try to tell me you’re disappointed with yourself,” Julian huffed, still with his eyes on the scanner.

“Hardly, but I find myself greatly disappointed in you, doctor.”

Julian looked up, the disbelief on his face almost comical. “Me? That’s rich. The genocidal maniac is disappointed because I disapprove of his actions.” He lashed out the words, but even as he sent the barb flying, he knew it was a mistake. Garak would never withdraw from a fight, no matter how bloody.

“What I’m tired of, doctor, is your self-righteous sanctimony. Your pretentious, priggish, sniffy posturing. You’re not a saint, however you style yourself. You’re a coward. Who are you to judge me? To dismiss me? To demean me? ‘Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto: I am human and nothing human is alien to me’. You waxed poetic about that one, once.”

“You’re not human,” Julian taunted.

“Neither are you,” Garak shot back.

Julian’s reaction amazed him; a stutter of fear, quickly shuttered in anger. Julian slammed his tricorder down, stepped forward and towered over Garak. Julian or not, friend or not, this was something Garak would not tolerate. He sprang up, ignoring the searing jabs of pain, a low rumbling hiss in his throat.

They stalemated, tense and close with each other’s breaths loud in their ears. Julian, hearing Garak’s ragged, painful breathing, suddenly cursed himself. How had he let himself lose control? He was a doctor, he was better than this. He backed off and lowered his gaze. He held up his hands in supplication. “I’m sorry.”

Garak stood his ground.

“Please, Garak, sit down. Let me help you.” He held out a small smile. “I promise I’ll try not to be such a jerk.”

Slowly, Garak lowered himself back down. He watched warily as Julian softly stepped forward and reached out a tentative hand. Julian touched him gently on his arm and picked up the osteo regenerator.

Julian tended his wounds in silence. The tension eased from both of them. Garak closed his eyes and gave himself up to the oh so gentle and soothing touch.

When he was done, Julian laid the instruments aside. He hesitated, then spoke. “I don’t believe I’m wrong to judge what you did, but it was wrong to behave as if that one action defined you.”

“Perhaps it does.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Doctor, I admit - I had hoped that you, of all people, would understand.”

“Why me?”

Garak, perplexed, caught a faint undercurrent of anxiety from Julian. “I had hoped that through all of our discussions you could ... appreciate my motivations, if not my action,” he explained.

“It’s not a question of understanding, Garak, it’s a question of feeling. I can’t be rational about it. You tried to kill people. You tried to kill me. Logic can’t dictate ethics.”

“There we differ.”

“Garak, I can’t do this anymore. Friendship - friendship shouldn’t be a burden.”

“Shouldn’t it? There we differ, too.”

“Garak, I - “

“Julian.”

The use of his first name startled him into silence.

“It’s all right,” said Garak softly. _And now end it, Elim. It’s over._ He stood. “And now, doctor, it’s time to return to my cell,” he said briskly.

Julian commed security. As they waited, he said “He nearly punctured your lung.”

“What was it you told me once? Close only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades?” Garak quipped.

“I mean it, Garak. I worry about you, sometimes. Please just try to stay out of trouble,” Julian said.  He wondered what perversity caused him to reach out only when he knew Garak had retreated.

The guard entered. Garak forced a smile. “Now, doctor, where’s the fun in that?”


	8. Day Eighty Two

The Replimat was quiet, the breakfast rush over. Julian hunched over the table, frowning as he reread the holo counselor’s report. He finished with a snort. _The nerve of the man_. He flung the PADD onto the table - their table, where his legs out of long habit had led him – and closed his eyes.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Julian, startled, opened his eyes. Ziyal stood beside him, awkward and flushed, hugging her art to her chest.

“Of course.” He stood, watching her with curiosity as she sat down. They had never been close, her age and reticence coupled with his submerged jealousy over her easy relationship with Garak had sunk any friendship that might have arisen. He sat down, noticing her blush and the shyness that crept out of her.

“How are you?” Ziyal asked, her gaze short of his eyes.

“Good, good. Busy, but good. Um... You?”

“Oh, good. You know. Not so busy, though.”

“Ah.”

“But good.”

“Good.”

Neither spoke. Julian smiled awkwardly. Ziyal blushed and looked down at her hands and clutched her sketches more tightly to her chest. The hum and rattle of the ducts amplified the silence.

“Um, you’re still drawing, I see?”

“Yes, Nerys says I’m getting better, but ..”

“Can I see?”

Ziyal hesitated.

“Please?” he asked, in the warm tone he practiced on his most recalcitrant patients.

“All right. But – they’re not very good.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong,” he said, bright with relief at having an actual topic to discuss.

Ziyal mistook his relief for enthusiasm. The tightness that had gripped her loosened. Clearing a space, she spread the sketches out on the table. There were a few pencil sketches of the Promenade and one of the wormhole, but most were simple, unstudied portraits.

There was one of Morn on his barstool, head thrust forward, hand waving above, as he went on and on about something to Ensign Savarres, whose eyes strayed out of sight in search of escape. There were several of Kira sitting with stiff patience on the couch in her quarters, concealed impatience plainly strung through her tightly wrung hands. There was even, to Julian’s surprise, a sketch of himself and Miles playing darts. Miles is about to take his turn, his hand already raised to throw the dart, his head turned over his shoulder to speak. Julian sees himself sitting there, leaning back against the bar, a beer in his hand. His head is turned toward Miles, but he has a distracted air and a smile bearing more melancholy than cheer.

Ziyal followed his gaze. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

“No, not at all. They’re amazing,” Julian said. He wasn’t lying. The sketches were rough but alive. The moments, the people, achingly honest.

Julian continued his perusal, gently sifting through the images. Suddenly, he stopped, arrested by a sketch buried and obscured by the images around it. He held his breath and unearthed it from the pile with shaking reverence.

Garak is sitting in a corner of his cell. One leg is stretched in front of him, the other is bent. His hands are wrapped around his knee, his fingers loosely intertwined. His head is tilted back against the wall. His eyes are open, but he is looking inward. The contrast of the relaxed posture and intense eyes is striking.

“Oh,” said Ziyal, hurriedly reaching out to reclaim her property. “He wouldn’t like me showing anyone. He barely let me sketch him as it was.”

“Of course,” said Julian, his reluctance showing only in the slow release of his fingers as she pulled the sketch free. Ziyal gathered her art, placing the sketch of Garak at the back protectively. Julian was glad, suddenly, for his enhancements, for the perfect copy of the image now held tight in his mind.

“You should visit.”

The plea was soft, but Julian felt the sharp lines of accusation underneath. This, obviously, had been her purpose in seeking him out. Julian sighed. “Ziyal, it’s complicated.”

“That’s just an excuse. If you were really his friend you’d go.”

“We were never that close,” he lied.

Ziyal frowned, her anger whispering underneath. She clearly felt uncomfortable confronting him, but Julian worried her convictions would soon dispel her discomfort.

“I have to go,” he said, “I have a meeting at Ops. Thank you for sharing your art with me.” He rose abruptly, gave a peremptory nod, and turned away.


	9. More Day Eighty Two

Sorkin slouched against the wall, shuffling his phaser back and forth between his hands.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Jameesha asked. She perched on the security desk, idly scrolling through the monitors.

“Yeah. Promenade duty. But it’s much more pleasant here with you.”

“Aren’t you a lazy thing.”

“Like you’re not supposed to be checking the shipment in Cargo Bay 6.”

She laughed. “Guilty as charged. It’s kind of refreshing to goof off without worrying about Odo’s spying on you, isn’t it? One time I picked up a PADD that was lying around, and guess who it was?”

“That’s not so bad. When he was disguised as a chair, Davies sat on him.”

“Thank the Prophets there’s no chance of that now.”

“No,” said a gravelly voice. “But have you considered the possibility that he could be standing right behind you?”

Sorkin jerked himself off the wall as a looming Odo materialized from an unlit recess. “Constable Odo!” he said, greasing back his hair with a jittery hand. “We were just -”

“Don’t you have your assignments to get to?”

They ran, Odo basking in their clattering retreat; the book on stealth techniques had been worth the latinum, after all.

***

Garak smoothed out the small shirt and folded it with practiced precision. He placed it neatly in its pile and turned to the next piece of clothing. Although he knew eager fingers would soon demolish his efforts, he wanted them to see the care behind the charity. This was his first shipment to the orphanage since his incarceration. He had included a brief note, apologising for the late shipment, and made extra sweaters and scarves for the approaching Bajoran winter.

During the last month, he had spent all his spare time sewing. His customers were needier (or at least more demanding) than the orphans. He was allowed only four hours per week to see customers in his shop and was not permitted to see customers in his cell. However, that did not prevent the number of ‘visitors’ he saw from swelling - like Kira (who at least had made the pretense of asking after his well-being before remarking how quickly her pregnancy was progressing and how soon she would have nothing decent to wear).

The work was welcome; the company less so. Although he genuinely liked most of his customers, they exhausted him, and he could no longer soothe himself with the promise of calm and kanar in his quarters at the end of the day. He could never fully relax in his cell; he found he could not even read. Thankfully, he could still scheme.

Predictably, countless thoughts, ideas and plans circled around Cardassia in thick orbits. Other schemes, however, were frivolous. He had, for example, established an intricate plan to infest spider mites into his rival’s insipid new clothing line and regretted only the impossibility of implementing it given the limitations presently placed upon him.

He adored petty revenge. He wondered if Julian was enjoying the holo-counselor’s report: _that_ had been fun.

He finished packing the shirts and proceeded with the sweaters, Julian still in his thoughts. Julian, with his perplexing and, as yet, unexplained behaviour. He would have overlooked Julian’s uncharacteristic unwillingness to forgive him, if not for his unaccountable reactions during their confrontation. _Why be upset that I called him inhuman? Why be afraid when I said he of all people would understand?_

The first horrifying thought – that Julian was a founder – he dismissed as unlikely. He had seen the discordant emotions dueling for control. A founder would have warmly maintained the friendship or coolly dismissed it.

What, then? Julian was the most human human he knew – or was that merely the conclusion he endeavoured to convey? In his first encounters with Julian he had been too ignorant of humans and Starfleet in general, and of Julian in particular, to accurately gauge his behaviour. Happily, the neatly compartmented and calibrated brains of Cardassians permitted him the convenience of reliving and reevaluating each of their interactions from this new perspective.

His reverie was disturbed by Odo, making his accustomed rounds. “Constable,” he said, not stopping his packing.

Odo nodded in reply. Normally he would continue on his rounds – he disliked chatting on duty – but this time he stopped, scrutinising the packages of clothing. Garak could see the suspicion steaming off of him.

“Just where are you planning on sending these?” Odo asked. “You don’t normally ship clothing.”

“I do to the orphanage.”

“The orphanage?”

Garak sighed and looked up. “You needn’t sound so surprised. If you don’t believe me, you’re free to search and mess up things in here as your guards do. Why shouldn’t I send clothing to the orphanage?”

“Because you never do anything that doesn’t benefit you.”

“Well, then you’ll agree with my father who taught me that making the world a better place in whatever way we can, be it ever so small or insignificant, benefits everyone.” Garak omitted to mention that Tain’s definition of ‘better’ was ... unique.

“You could be smuggling contraband.”

“You’ve got me confused with Quark. Speaking of whom ...” Garak stood up, leisurely patted the nonexistent dust from his trousers, and crossed the small space to stand in front of Odo. “... perhaps you would be willing to pass on a message for me?”

Odo’s fading suspicions reasserted themselves. “Why don’t you tell him yourself?” he challenged.

Garak grinned. “Consider it a present for improving the prison fare.”

“I’m listening.”

“He’s selling black market sex toys out of my shop. I’d like to ask him – nicely, of course – to stop.”

Odo’s brow darkened, even as his pulse quickened. Quark, it was always Quark. He nodded and left. Odo abandoned the remainder of his rounds, marched through the Promenade and barrelled into Garak’s shop.

“Quark!” he shouted.

“Odo!” Quark sprung forward nervously.

Odo ignored him. After a cursory glance at Garak’s display area, he moved to the back and began rifling through the fabric rolls.

Quark followed him, trying to insinuate himself between Odo and the fabrics. “Not even going to say hi? What are you looking for?” Odo pushed him aside. “You know, if you want fashion tips, I can get Leeta to -”

“Aha.” Odo held up a box of glass bottles filled with a shimmering grey liquid.

“Ah,” said Quark, learning in. “Now see, if that’s what you’re interested in, I can -”

“This is illegal, Quark. And dangerous.”

“Dangerous? It’s just a stimulating body gel.”

“That causes fatal heart attacks three times out of ten.”

“But what a way to go, eh?”

“Get rid of it, Quark, and everything else you’ve got. Now, or Garak won’t be the only one in a cell.”

“Okay, Odo, fine. You win. But let’s just keep this between you and me, all right? No need to worry Garak.”

“You think he doesn’t know?”

“Shit. Of course he knows; he knows everything. Odo, please assure Garak that it was all a big misunderstanding. I’ll get this all cleaned up. Today. I promise, just please don’t let him kill me.”

“I’ll think about it. I have a meeting in Ops now, but when I get back -:

“Everything will be in order. I swear.”

Odo left him sweating and headed to Ops.

***

The meeting, as usual, was long and redundant. Sisko looked at the slack, disinterested faces, the tightly gripped cups of raktajino, and the stifled yawns without pity. If he had to suffer, so did they.

“Next item,” said Sisko, directing his gaze to Julian. “Medical update. Doctor?”

Julian shifted so he was upright, if not alert. “Nurse Hashemi is back from leave, so we’re fully staffed again. We’re still behind on medical shipments; some of the ships have had to make large detours because of Klingon hostilities.’

“Anything we can’t do without?” Sisko interrupted.

“Not for now, but I’ll keep an eye on it. Other than that, there are two long-term patients in the Infirmary right now, both with that Bolian flu, but both stable. Mostly it’s been the usual bumps and scrapes that we’re seeing, along with a slight malfunction in the holo counselor program.”

“Malfunction?” scoffed Odo. “Sabotage is more like it.”

“Sabotage?” said Sisko, suddenly awake.

“We don’t know that,” said Julian, “It may just be a glitch. It’s just that the last recommendation was ... unusual.”

“It called for Garak’s immediate release.” clarified Odo.

“Really?” said Jadzia, perking up. Even Kira looked interested.

“Miles and I are looking into it,” said Julian.

“It’s clever, whatever it was.” said Miles. “I can’t even prove there _was_ interference. Most people would just write in an override code – something like ‘always agree with the patient’.”

“It was preposterous,” said Odo. “Going on about how Garak is an upstanding citizen who should be rewarded for his actions, not penalized by a cruel and unjust system. Please.”

Julian slumped back down in his seat. He had hoped for the item to pass unnoticed, but he was quickly realising that his famed naivety had suckered him once again. Odo’s appetite for outrage, Miles’ fascination with technical problems, and the general love of intrigue were well-targeted torpedoes. His hope sank.

“It seems like there were these tiny little nudges here and there to the built-in ethics system. Nothing drastic, but add them all up ...”

“And calling Doctor Bashir a pushy, pedantic pill peddler ...” grumped Odo.

“You and Garak having a little tiff, doctor?” asked Jadzia.

“And you’ve got a completely different program. And the brilliant thing is that it’s even possible it wasn’t technical ...” said Miles.

“So boring even Morn avoids him ...” Odo continued.

“When aren’t they?” said Kira.

“It’s possible Garak convinced the holo-counselor that some of his pre-programmed moral assumptions were wrong. And once one assumption is changed ...” Miles was getting excited now.

”Whose conclusions are so flawed they’re not even wrong,” concluded Odo

“Garak does have a way with words,” said Jadzia.

“People,” said Sisko, a smile struggling at the corner of his mouth. “Need I remind you this is a serious matter? Can you fix it, Chief?”

“Eventually. It may be easier to order a new version. It would be a week or two, not more.”

“Do that. In the meantime, doctor, is it causing problems for other people accessing the program?”

“No,” Julian admitted.  He shrugged. “It appears that everyone prefers the new version.”


	10. Day Eighty Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the episode The Ship, where Julian gets in trouble with Odo because of Quark.

Garak discarded his greasy dish and concentrated on Odo, his eyes following Odo’s hand as he scooped up the last, dripping bites of regova egg. “What do you think?” he asked.

Odo swallowed and rubbed his lips with the rough napkin, still finding the feel of food on his skin intolerable. “The whites are softer than Bajoran eggs, less rubbier, although the yolk is grainier.” He hesitated. “The taste is ... sour.”

“Yes, but that’s just the surface taste.” Garak prompted. For the past few weeks they had been using their breakfasts together to develop Odo’s ability to recognise and, hopefully, appreciate taste. Texture came easily to him, followed by rudimentary tastes such as salty and sour, but flavours eluded him. “Name other things it reminds you of,” suggested Garak.

“Vinegar – no, lemon. And fish?”

“Good. There’s a third flavour there, if you concentrate. Somewhat earthy, slightly fermented ....”

“I don’t – wait. Is it mushroom?”

Garak nodded. “Exactly,” he said, squashing the impulse to explain that there were, in fact, sixteen unique flavours far superior in complexity and nuance to lemon, fish and mushroom.

“Yes, I taste it now,” Odo burst out, smiling, triumph bubbling through him. He caught Garak’s delicately fond smile and frowned. “But I don’t like it,” he added, in restoration of his dignity.

“Still, the variety is nice, wouldn’t you say?” said Garak, gallantly overlooking Odo’s lapse of decorum. “The worst part about prison is the predictability. Take today for example. Breakfast with you, then a visit from Nurse Lai, followed by a rousing session with the holo counselor.”

“Holo cheerleader from what I hear.”

“Humour, Odo? I’m proud of you.” He paused before slipping into the next sentence. “You know, I underestimated the counselor. Her insights were exquisite.”

“Stop fishing, Garak. You haven’t got any bait, and there’s no fish in the pond.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, Garak, that the holo counselor’s recommendations will be given the due consideration they deserve.” Odo huffed. “She’s not even alive and I feel sorry for her, having to put up with you.”

“Yet here you are of your own free will,” Garak said with an expansive flourish of his arms.

“I’m immune to your charms, Garak.”

“Then you admit I have them.”

“Do I?” Odo checked the chronometer, stood abruptly and shut down the conversation. “I have to go – I received notice of a suspicious shipment from Rigellia in Cargo Bay Four. It’s arriving now.”

Garak used the few minutes before Nurse Lai arrived for his bi-weekly medical check to brush his teeth and freshen up. He took his time, ensuring his hair was neatly combed and his clothes brushed, despite his hatred of the loathsome-beige space, a hatred that had deepened daily. Only when fully satisfied with his ensemble (and that there was no regova egg stuck in his teeth), did he select a smile and allow his liberation from the cramped compartment.

When he stepped out, however, it was not Nurse Lai who stood waiting, but Julian. Garak, unprepared, fought to control himself, but managed only to master the outward expression of the mulish hope that suddenly lodged in his chest. He looked at Julian but found nothing beyond a placid professionalism. Discouraged, he reminded himself of the maxim that the best defense is a good offense. Regaining his smile, he chose as his weapon a finely wielded defiance. He delicately lifted an eyeridge, an implied objection on his lips.

“Tellarian fever,” said Julian, his voice stiff. “There’s a mild outbreak that has disproportionately hit my staff. Hence, you are stuck with me today.”

“Just for the length of a medical scan, I trust.”

Julian closed his eyes and heaved out a sigh. “Look, Garak. Cut me some slack, all right? We’re short-staffed. I’ve been run off my feet for days.”

Nothing Garak could see, beyond the theatrics of the delivery, substantiated Julian’s statement. His eyes were clear, his was posture straight – his foot was even tapping, perhaps unconsciously, in agitation. He doubted Julian would lie about the fever, or the staffing shortages – why lie about his lack of energy?

“You don’t look it,” he said, pushing the accusation across. The only reaction he received was to be ignored. Julian pulled out his tricorder and began the medical scan.

“Let’s just get this over with. You know the drill, Garak.”

“I do. Let’s see ... No, yes, yes, no, regularly and not to the best of my knowledge. See? Done already. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have important things to do.” Garak strolled to the cot, stretched out his legs and started picking at his fingernails.

“I need to ask the questions.”

Garak didn’t look up. “Don’t bother. Have I experienced any pain or discomfort since the last visit? No. Have I –“

“Thank you, but I’ll conduct the exam if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind, actually.”

“Too bad.” The tricorder beeped in conclusion and Julian glanced at the results. Everything was within normal parameters. He frowned, then caught himself. _Unbelievable,_ he thought, _the man_ _is making_ _me suspicious of normal results._ Julian put the scanner away and pulled out his PADD. “Have you - could look at me?”

“Yes, I imagine I _could_.”

“Fine.” said Julian. “Have it your way.” _B_ _loody Cardassian_. “Have you experienced any pain or discomfort since the last medical visit?”

“Hmmmm ... let me think. No.”

Julian tapped the PADD. “According to your charts, you haven’t experienced any pain or discomfort during your incarceration. I find that hard to believe.”

Garak raised his head and let his mouth fall slack. “You think Nurse Lai would fib? I’m shocked. She seemed so reputable.”

“No headaches?” pursued Julian, “Despite your history of them? Despite the longer exposure to brighter lights and colder temperatures?”

“No, but the longer exposure to _you_ is starting to have that effect.”

Julian winced. “Garak, I’m trying to help you.”

Suddenly, Garak was genuinely angry. To Julian, ‘helping’ excused anything he said, justified anything he did. It was a shield, a bludgeon. He sprang up and stalked forward until he stood face to face. “No, you’re not,” he said in a gently simmering voice. “If you were trying to help me, you’d think about what I want, not what you want from me. Don’t pretend you care.”

Julian stepped back, flustered. He floundered between shame and outrage, falling back reflexively on the latter. “I’m a doctor, of course I care. I care about all my patients.”

Garak waved the comment aside. “That’s not caring, that’s duty. To care for everybody is to care for nobody, doctor.”

Julian shook his head. “This isn’t personal.”

“This is,” hissed Garak. He pointedly turned his back. Julian flapped and flailed at him, but he concentrated on letting the words turn into noise and letting the noise slip soundlessly around him. It was some time before he realised the words, the noise and Julian had gone.


	11. More Day Eighty Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the episode The Ship, where Julian gets in trouble with Odo because of Quark.

Garak slumped in his chair while the holo counselor droned on and on about the injustice of his situation. Garak sighed and slid further down the chair. _Blown up by my own bomb,_ he thought bitterly.

He shut his eyes, willing away the headache that had anchored itself behind his eyes. It persisted, along with near permanent thoughts of Julian, anchored in him more deeply and intransigently than any ache or pain.

Garak regretted his outburst – the fact of it, not the feeling. He had meant to anger Julian, to pry from him his insecurities, his secrets. Instead, he had lost control and lost the opportunity. He admitted only this regret. That he had forced a wider wedge between them, he did not admit.

He spurned his regrets, both the admitted and the disowned and instead, he concentrated on his suspicions. He had wandered in his memories, his many interactions with Julian, watching and re-watching, as old images formed new pictures. There was no dramatic moment, no revelation, only minute details, small inconsistencies and thin gaps that linked and joined until a seamless story began to shape itself. He did not _know -_ he was not _certain –_ but no doubts disturbed him.

‘ _You could hurt him.’_ whispered Tain (not him, he would never admit the voice was his). _‘You could use this.’_

‘ _No,’_ he thought, defiantly, desperately. ‘ _I will not betray him.’_

‘ _Not even for Cardassia?’_

‘ _For Cardassia, always’_ he thought without hesitation – and yet, the determination behind the declaration wavered. Would he, if he must, betray Julian for Cardassia? Or, more terrible still, Cardassia for him? He could reach no resolution.

When the holo session ended (despite irrational fears that he might be left to languish there forever), Ensign Jameesha came to escort him back to his cell. That he felt relief at the prospect of returning to his prison brought a blackly humorous smile to his lips.

Ensign Jameesha mistook the meaning and smiled back in greeting. During the first month of his incarceration she had been professional but distant, bestowing only terse responses and gruff instructions. Garak had answered graciously, obeyed easily. Gradually, as he knew she would, she lost her suspicions, her reserve, and finally her guard. She thought him harmless; he encouraged the thought.

As they entered the lift, they were talking of her sister, of possible gifts for her birthday. Garak was suggesting a scarf when suddenly the lift slowed, darkened and then settled to a dead stop.

Garak held his breath. Beside him, Jameesha exhaled in annoyance, pushing back her black, curly hair. She commed Ops.

“Two hours?” she cried on hearing Kira’s response.

“Everything’s down,” said Kira. “An Ion storm. Ops and the Infirmary are our first priorities. With the Chief away, everything’s going to take longer. We’ll get to you when we can. Hold tight.”

Garak bit back the panic. Two hours. He could manage. He could breathe. He closed his eyes against the darkness. He held his voice steady. “So, my dear, about your sister. Tell me more about her – what’s she like?”

He blessed Jameesha for her talkativeness. For two hours, she reminisced about her childhood, Garak having only to supply small nods and words to encourage her. When the lights suddenly returned and the lift moved, she laughed.

“Finally. You must be happy to get away from me by now!”

The lift opened. Garak felt the tension melt from him. “My dear, your stories were charming, as always,” he said.

He drank in the open space and air as they crossed the short distance to his cell. He froze. It was smaller than he remembered; too small. He couldn’t go in. There wasn’t enough room. There wasn’t enough air.

“Garak?” asked Jameesha.

Garak gathered himself. “My apologies – I suddenly remembered an order I forgot to submit.”

He crossed the threshold. The forcefield sprung shut behind him.

‘ _This,’_ thought Garak, the first fingers of panic gripping him. _‘Is going to be a problem."_

He spent the afternoon huddled in the corner. The panic was neither complete nor constant. It was unpredictable: sudden crushing waves spinning him in darkness. Each time, he fought it. Each time, struggling back to himself, waiting for the next attack, he sought a solution.

He found it by chance. Regaining his breath after an especially intense assault, he slowly became aware of a faint pain in his fingers. He looked down; his right hand, resting on the ground, was too near the forcefield. He began to remove his fingers, then stopped. Deliberately, he edged them closer. The pain increased: a cool, dull burning.

He pulled back his hand and thought. He was no stranger to pain or the administration of it, nor to its effects. It had been years since he, a child bereft of comfort, had soothed himself with pain. His training, then the wire, had rendered it unnecessary. The familiarity of it now embraced him.

He turned back the sleeve of his tunic carefully, almost reverently, exposing his forearm. Although his wrist and hand were more sensitive, they were more visible. Here, there were fewer nerves but, on the underside, softer scales. He pushed his forearm experimentally against the forcefield. He pushed gently, adjusting to the pain. He pushed further, then further, until the pain seared and he gasped.

He pulled his arm back, fighting the urge go further. He could not afford to cause damage he could not hide nor heal. In the privacy of the washroom he soothed the area with oil and improvised a light bandage. He examined the wound, then his emotions. He felt light, happy, almost giddy.

Voices in the corridor attracted his attention. To his surprise, he saw Julian and Quark escorted by Odo, who ushered Julian and Quark into a cell adjoining Garak’s and cut short their voluble protests.

“Rules are rules, doctor,” Odo said. “It won’t be long until the magistrate can hear your case, but until then you’ll wait in here.” Odo secured the forcefield and left promptly, relieved to escape the bickering and whining.

Garak, still feeling remarkably good, seeing the upright doctor stuck in jail with the duplicitous Ferengi, didn’t even try to stop the laughter that bubbled out of him.

“It’s not funny,” said Julian, arms crossed, posture stiff with petulance.

“Given that humour is based on unexpected and incongruous circumstances, I’d have to disagree.” Garak waved his hand weakly. “The sight of the two of you ...! And Odo!” He laughed harder.

Julian frowned. “Don’t you know that farce is the lowest form of humour?”

“You’re the one who extols the virtues of Shakespeare, doctor, not me,” rebutted Garak, grinning. “What happened?”

“It was a simple misunderstanding, ” said Quark. “The doctor wanted me to get him Rigellian flea spiders and forgot to mention they were illegal.”

“I didn’t _know_ they were illegal. I needed them to treat Kira’s pregnancy symptoms.”

Garak tutted. “No need to work yourself up, doctor. Really, you’re no fun at all.”

“What?”

“He’s got you there” said Quark.

“Don’t you start.” Julian turned on the Ferengi.

“It’s true. You’re as stiff as a drink. Well, bad example. Stiff as a bar stool.”

“That is ridiculously untrue. I’ll have you know I once-”

“Danced on a table in your underwear at the Academy.” said Garak and Quark in unison.

Julian glared as they both laughed, but his glare served only to send them into more violent paroxysms until they were tottering and bent with laughter. Julian felt himself weakening, the laughter nudging and nibbling at his resolve. He let go.

“All right,” he conceded, as their laughter subsided. “I may have told that one more than once. But did I ever tell you about the time I accidentally dyed my hair bright orange? Permanently?”

“Please,” said Garak, “Tell me there are pictures.”

 


	12. Day Ninety Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the episode Looking for par'Mach in All the Wrong Places, which inexplicably has Kira and Miles developing feelings for each others, and Worf/Jadzia and Grilka/Quark

Sorkin shifted his body but kept his arm locked against his side, phaser pointing at Garak. Miles O’Brien, peering into the control panel of the malfunctioning forcefield, spared him an exasperated glance.

“Can’t you put that thing away?” he said.

Sorkin glanced nervously at Garak. “It’s my job to keep you safe.”

“You’re making me a helluva lot more nervous than he is.” Miles said, waving his scanner toward Garak. “Look, at least stand over there, okay?” As Sorkin retreated, Miles shook his head and muttered, “Sheesh. He’s on edge, isn’t he? Is he always like that?”

‘ _Only since I got a phaser,’_ Garak thought.

Regulations stipulated that his cell be thoroughly searched once a month. Just prior to the most recent search, he had returned from a counseling session and sensed, with the certainty of a former operative, that hands other than his had been stuck into his box of sewing supplies. Within fifteen minutes he had found the phaser, concealed it from the cameras, smuggled it into the washroom, and hidden it properly.

Sorkin, who had never had the wits to hide his dislike, was the obvious suspect even without the ill-concealed smirk shining on his face during the search. Garak had enjoyed its dissolution, the gust of horror that blew across Sorkin’s face as the search concluded – with no phaser in sight.

He said nothing of his thoughts. Instead, he presented a simpler truth, “Oh, I don’t believe he trusts me.”

Miles grunted. “That’s no excuse; neither do I. Pass me the electron diffuser, would you?”

Miles reached back and took it without looking, staring and frowning at the circuit board, hunting for clues. Garak had noted with both respect and uneasiness the pace and proficiency with which he tracked faint footprints in the code. If – when – the Chief dug out the problem, would the trail lead to him?

Miles tapped the diffuser absently against his palm. A minute later, he applied it briefly to the regulator and passed it back to Garak.

Garak reached out, and the coarse material of his clothes scratched against barely healed and still sensitive skin. The burns – and subsequently the bloody incisions inflicted by his cloth-cutter - had helped, at first. Initially, he had tightly controlled when and how often he yielded to temptation, using a dermal generator snuck in from his shop to heal himself. Then, as the potency of the relief faded, he had cut faster and more feverishly. Now the abused skin and scales – scattered on his body over old scars - slowly, if ever, recovered.

In a moment of desperation, he had disabled the forcefield.

“By the way,” said Miles. “I wanted to ask if you could look at Kira’s boots.”

“Her boots?” Garak asked, startled by the mundanity of the question.

“Yeah, Keiko asked me to ask you if there was anything you could do. Kira’s on her feet all day, see, and she says her boots are killing her. I tried to tell them you weren’t a cobbler, but, well, try telling those two anything.”

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll take a look.” Garak knew little about orthotics, but it could be a challenging distraction.

“Thanks.”

“How is it going?” asked Garak.

Miles, focused on the panel, didn’t see Garak’s nod towards it. “Well...” he answered uncomfortably, “I know it must seem unusual, us living together and all -”

The response surprised Garak, whose thoughts had returned to the forcefield. He felt old instincts stirring. Vague and suggestive questions were a standard interrogation technique, but Garak resisted the temptation to use the opening. “Not from a Cardassian point of view,” Garak assured him. “Commander Kira is carrying your and Professor O’Brien’s child; it’s natural to want her close.”

“Right, that’s it exactly. See, most people don’t understand. There’s nothing, y’know, _weird_ about it.”

Garak observed the red flush that rushed over the Chief’s neck and face, but said nothing. Miles cleared his throat and returned to his work.

Eventually, the forcefield was fixed. Miles stepped outside the forcefield and nodded at Sorkin who, with a relieved face, reactivated the field.

“I couldn’t find the exact cause,” he told Garak. He paused, furrowing his brow slightly before tilting his head and remarking, “I should thank you, though. It’s more interesting than most of my work; I’m almost sorry I figured it out.”

He left to report to Odo, leaving Garak to wonder whether he had been issued a compliment, a warning or a challenge.

***

“Mind if I join you?”

“Sure, go ahead, Miles.”

Miles sat down and cast covetous eyes at Julian shoveling in large, dripping bites of lasagna. He sighed and stabbed his fork into salad. “Keiko has me on a diet,” he said.

“Mmmph - too bad,” said Julian, pushing in another mouthful of lasagna. Leeta looked at Miles over her vegetable soup and gave a sympathetic shrug.

Julian wiped his mouth with his napkin and took a drink of root beer. “Did I tell you Jake is writing an article about me?”

“Yes,” Miles said quickly in an attempt to forestall Julian's third telling, “Yes, you did. What about you, Leeta?” he continued, “What’s new?”

“Not much. I’m enjoying my new career as a fashionista. Unfortunately, it’s temporary, and of course I’m still working for Quark, but it’s a lot more interesting than the dabo table, and Garak is a fabulous designer – he gave this to me.” She turned her head to better display a green and gold striped scarf.

“It’s nice - and generous of him.”

“Yes, I’ve always liked him. Oof, is that the time?” She finished the last of her soup and stood up. “I’ve got to get back to work. See you later, sweetie.” She kissed the top of Julian’s head and left, waving good bye to Miles.

“She’s a good catch, that one.” Miles remarked.

Julian swallowed. “Leeta? Oh yes, she’s very nice.”

Miles frowned but didn’t follow up. He took a large bite of salad and crunched on it morosely as Julian slurped up a dangling strand of cheese.

“So how was your day?”

Julian pitched his eyes backward. “Unless you want to hear about Klingon-Ferengi-Trill sex-related injuries, don’t ask. What about you?”

“I spent most of the morning fixing the forcefield in Garak’s cell.”

“Oh.”

Miles waited, but Julian said nothing else. Miles shook his head. “What’s going on with the two of you? Usually you’re thick as thieves, but you’ve barely talked in the last three months.”

Julian raised his eyebrows. “He did try to kill all of us, you remember.”

“It hadn’t slipped my mind or anything. I just thought, y’know, that you’d’ve forgiven him by now.”

“Of course I haven’t forgiven him,” said Julian, a dismissive shrug on his shoulders. “Have you?”

“I was never as angry as you were. I mean, I can’t honestly say I wouldn’t have made the same choice if I were on a ship full of Cardies and the Founders were gunning for Earth.”

“How can you condone genocide?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I’m just saying ... it’s complicated. The Founders – well, they all decide together what to do, so it’s not like any of them are innocent, are they? And if they were serious in what they said -”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“Jesus, Julian, life isn’t an ethics class. It’s messy and ugly and there’s no good choices down in the trench.” Miles grabbed his water and took a long drink. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“No, I’m sorry. I’m not – I know I’m not always the best listener. Go on. Please””

“You can be intimidating, y’know,” Miles admitted, “Preaching this impossibly high standard that no one could ever live up to.”

“I’m sorry.”

Miles watched him closely for a moment, then sighed. “S’alright. I’m not saying you’re wrong, either. I just don’t see why this time is different. You’ve forgiven Garak a lot worse things.”

“I guess it’s just that it’s ... personal. I guess I never thought he’d do anything to hurt _me._ ”

Miles nodded. “Yeah, I can understand that.”

“Do you mind if we talk about something else?”

“You mean like the new holosuite program Keiko is buying me for my birthday?”

As Miles delved into the details of the new D-Day program, Julian wondered what would happen if he told him the truth - that he’d never even been angry at Garak, that it was his lack of anger and outrage that scared him. He was an augment. The unknown implications of that frightened him. If he gave in, if he compromised, if he embraced any shade of moral grayness - would it be the first treacherous step on shifting sand?


	13. Day One Hundred and Forty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place just after the episode ...Nor the Battle to the Strong in which Odo is still adjusting to being a solid, and Bashir lands Jake in a dangerous situation

“Ziyal, may I speak with you for a moment?” asked Odo as she passed the security desk.

“Of course.” Ziyal looked at Odo with curiosity. Garak’s regard for Odo had softened her initial hostility towards him, but they had never spoken more than greetings.

“I just wanted to ask – how does Garak seem to you lately?”

Perplexed, she frowned. “Just the same. Why? There’s nothing the matter is there?”

“No, not at all. I just wondered if that Bolian smuggler in the next cell was causing problems. You see, Garak might not want to complain to me directly,” he lied - Garak had, in fact, treated him to a parade of highly decorated complaints ever since the Bolian’s arrival. 

“It’s kind of you to worry,” she said, a warm gratefulness in her eyes. “But everything’s fine. In fact, Garak said he was delightfully talkative.”

“That’s good to hear,” he said, remembering with irony Garak's own words (a garrulous, imbecilic, gossipy ignoramus). “I don't need to worry then.  Thank you for your time.”

He settled in his chair and reflected. Nothing had been gained from the conversation. Lately, Garak had seemed ... unwell, perhaps - different in a way that confused Odo. His moods were sharper, his reactions uncertain. He either ate sparingly and lay listlessly in his cot for hours, or else he ate eagerly and moved restlessly about his cell. If Ziyal had also noticed something .... but her lack of concern meant nothing; she was observant - he had seen her art - but she was not yet experienced enough to filter, dissect and draw conclusions from her observations.

His conversation with Nurse Lai had been equally unhelpful. She had had little experience with Garak before his incarceration, and though her visits were professional they were brief. It was enough for her that his medical scans were normal. Odo had to acknowledge that, quite in contrast to their subject, medical scans didn’t lie. And yet ... he felt uneasy. Perhaps now that Nurse Jabara was back from leave she would take over – perhaps he would request it. She knew Garak well, one of the few medical personnel willing to help him before the arrival of the Federation, and they seemed to like or at least understand one another.

The distinct sound of Quark's imploring voice roused him. He looked around to find its source: Quark and Ziyal were standing just outside security. Odo stood quickly, then had to grab the desk to steady himself – his knee (hurt when he jumped off the stairs to catch two Yridians, thinking he could transform into a Tarkalean Condor) had stiffened as he sat. He straightened slowly, let the pain in his knee subside, then eased himself forward to listen.

“Do you really think people would be interested?”

“Are you kidding me! I – that is, _we_ \- could make a lot of money. I’ll tell you what – I’ll set up the customers, you draw their portraits, and I’ll give you 25% of the profits - after overhead, of course.”

Odo resisted the impulse to intervene. Quark’s proposal may have been unethical but it was not illegal; besides, once Kira found out she would handle it. Quark was, sensibly, much more scared of her than he was of Odo.

  
***

The program finished. Garak pulled his knife free from the body lying at his feet, a grim restlessness still gnawing at him. He tossed the knife aside and sank down onto his knees. Nothing helped; he didn’t know what else to do. Tain had punished displays of weakness so forcibly that Garak could not request help, could not even acknowledge the necessity of it. He could only bear witness as the anxiety, exhaustion and loneliness, like vultures feasting, laid him bare.

"Deep breaths," he told himself.  Until another option presented itself, he would carry on.  He retrieved the knife and pushed himself to his feet.   “Computer,” he commanded, “Authorisation Dukat T3ZA-8. Set program to highest intensity level and turn off safeties.”

"Turning off safeties is not recommended."

"Frankly, my dear," he said, readying himself, "I don't give a damn."

  
***

Julian, trying to nap, shifted uncomfortably on the couch, agitated less by the Klingon attacks he and Jake had survived than from the scalding torrent of displeasure and disapproval that had been directed at him by Captain Sisko over his decision to dump his son into an unstable war zone. He felt uneasy with himself, with the choice he had made, yet he still believed in it.

He had never been good at understanding himself or others. People blind, Palis had called him once, after one of their many fights. He recalled her tears, how she said that he didn’t help people, that he only solved problems.

He wondered why that made him think of Garak.

He threw off his blanket and swung his legs off the couch. His shift wasn’t for an hour, but he decided to go to the infirmary early. If he was lucky, there would be a nice, uncomplicated medical emergency to deal with.

***

Garak had taken down a dozen opponents before the fatigue caused him to slip as he turned. He wrenched himself upright and blocked the knife stabbing at his eye but was caught by the Jem’Hadar’s second weapon. He felt the knife tear through scales into the flesh beneath. The shock of it galvanized him. He lunged forward, grabbed the ridged head and snapped the neck. The Jem’Hadar crumpled to the ground.

“Computer, end program,” Garak said, before another opponent could materialise. Unfortunately, the termination of the program also entailed the disappearance of the knife lodged in his side, allowing the blood to break free from the wound.

Garak swore, a rather colourful phrase popular in the Order, and staunched the wound roughly with his hand. He called for the medical kit that all holosuites were programmed to replicate. Keeping one hand fisted into his side, he used his other to sift through the contents of the box. He judged the wound too deep for a dermal regenerator, so from the limited supplies he chose a temporary suture and closed the wound. He then cleaned and disinfected the area and swathed his waist in tight bandages.

When he had ensured the bandages were neat and secure, he took stock. If he kept the wound clean, and if he managed to avoid infection, it might heal on its own.

He remembered the first time he had cut himself. He was eight, playing with Mila’s sharp kitchen knives while she was out. Frightened by the blood, he had gone to Tain, holding out his arm.

‘Ah, you’ve hurt yourself,’ Tain had remarked genially. Then he’d reached forward and gripped the wound, hard, Elim gasping out in pain. ‘Now Elim, do you see the problem with showing me where you’re hurt?’

‘You can hurt me more.’

‘That’s right,’ Tain said, digging his fingers in deeper. ‘Much better to keep these things to yourself, don’t you agree?’ He had taken Garak into the washroom and lectured him on treating wounds as Garak struggled to obey his instructions. He remembered the approval in Tain’s eyes when he’d succeeded.

The incident was still in his mind as he cleaned the blood from the holosuite floor. He recycled the medkit. His tunic was ripped and bloody, so he recycled it as well. It was his habit to change into clean clothes after his workout, and no one would notice that his bag was emptier than usual.

Satisfied that no trace of the incident remained, he called up the sauna program. He could not soak the wound, but he needed to clean himself and be ready as usual when Jameesha came to return him to his cell.

He calculated that he could walk to security without attracting attention to his injury, thankful that he was not scheduled to go to his shop or the holo counselor that afternoon.

All he needed was a little rest.  A little rest, and he would be fine.


	14. More Day One Hundred and Forty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place just after the episode ...Nor the Battle to the Strong in which Odo is still adjusting to being a solid, and Bashir lands Jake in a dangerous situation

Moving among patients, checking monitors, and addressing minor complaints, Julian sank into the comfort of routine. He visited the recovery room (one heart surgery and one case of food poisoning), completed a wellness check for a six month old Bajoran child, filed his monthly reports, and treated a number of minor injuries and complaints (a bad back, a cough, and a broken arm). He lost himself in the work, lulled by its simplicity and staunch integrity.

The day passed quickly. Reluctantly, loath to return to the quiet of his quarters, he gathered his team together as the shift ended. He presented detailed patient status reports, listed new ship and species arrivals, and then shared the automatic equipment notifications.

“The battery on the specimen cooling unit is low, so keep an eye on it and replace it if necessary. Replicator fifteen is off by 10% - it’s not a priority, but I’ve notified engineering. Finally, a medkit was ordered in one of the holosuites this morning.”

“Do you want me to check it out?” offered Nurse Jabara.

“No, just leave it with me.” Likely it was nothing - following up on medkit requests was mostly a formality, but tracking down the recipient and getting the details of the incident would delay him from dealing with his thoughts for at least half an hour.

He dismissed the day shift, answered a few questions from the incoming shift, cleaned off his desk and then pulled up the details of the medkit request.

“Computer, identify occupant of Holosuite 3 at 10:00.”

“Occupant of Holosuite 3 at 10:00 was Elim Garak.”

Julian cursed. Immediately, his mind began churning out calculations. There was only a 5% probability Garak knew medkit requests were monitored; however, his cautious nature meant an 82% chance that he would only make a request for an injury requiring immediate care. There was a 91% probability it was not life threatening – not immediately life threatening, he amended – or the injury would have been noticed by the guard, but there was a 100% probability that Garak not only could but would have concealed the injury.

“Computer, were the safeties on in Holosuite 3 while in use by Elim Garak?”

“Negative.”

Julian tried to access the program specifications, but the file was encrypted. He abandoned the attempt; his first priority was to examine Garak and assess the extent of the injury.

“Bashir to Odo.”

“Go ahead, doctor.”

“Odo, I’ve reason to believe Garak has an untreated injury. He turned the safeties off in the holosuite this morning and replicated a medkit. I’m on my way over now to check on him.”

“I’ll meet you in the security office. Odo out.”

  
xxx

 

Voices roused Garak. Had he been sleeping? He blinked open foggy eyes, surprised to see Julian and Odo. Had they had an appointment? He couldn’t remember. He pulled himself upright with careful control, leaning back against the wall as casually as he could. Julian was staring at him intently.

“Doctor, Constable,” he said cautiously.

“You requested a medkit in the holosuite this morning,” said Julian, still looking at him strangely. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Ah,” said Garak, memories stumbling back to him.

Julian pulled out a scanner and transferred his focus to it. A minute later, he frowned and shoved it back into his medkit, turning to Odo. Garak couldn’t hear what he said, but presumably he asked Odo to lower the forcefield, for the next thing Garak knew Julian was kneeling beside him, his fingers brushing Garak’s temple.

“Doctor - “

“Shush,” said Julian, gently. He examined him with slow hands and serious eyes. Garak felt himself hypnotised, enthralled.

“I need you to show me where you’re injured.”

“Doctor ... I -”

“Elim,” said Julian. “Please.”

The anxiety in Julian’s voice unraveled him. Helplessly, he moved unsteady hands to fumble with the clasps of the thick tunic. Julian’s hands stilled his, took command, loosening the fastenings and easing the stiff material over his shoulders. The padded thermal undershirt was heavy with blood. Garak stared at it stupidly. When had the wound reopened? How much blood had he lost? Enough to explain the listlessness manacling his limbs and the lethargy mangling his thoughts.

He felt Julian’s hands on his knees. Startled, he looked down into earnest eyes. “Elim, I need to take you to the infirmary. I need to operate on this.” Garak tensed and felt Julian’s hands press in reassurance. “It will only be myself and Nurse Jabara, no one else. Let me just talk to Odo for a minute.”

Garak watched him go, saw him conferring with Odo, Julian casting glances back at him. Then Julian was back, suddenly, and how did that happen? His sense of time started to slip, to blur. Julian supporting him. The sting of a transporter. A bed. Murmuring. Drifting. Cold metal against his neck. He jerked up, gripping the hypospray.

“It’s all right.” Julian. Gentle hands relaxing him. “I’ll be here, I won’t leave you.”

A hiss of cold. Light fading. He was sinking, spinning.

“All right, let’s get his shirt off and clean the area.”

Cold air on his skin.

A gasp. “Doctor -”

“We’ll deal with those later.” Calm. Concern?

It didn’t matter. He couldn’t hold on. He let go and the room melted away, like Dali’s clocks.

 

xxx

 

The surgery had been simple, smooth, successful - Garak rested untroubled and undisturbed. It was Julian who was shaky, unsettled, keeping vigil alone in the dark. He attempted to collect and analyse the events of the past few months but his thoughts fell through his fingers like water in a sieve.

“Doctor?”

“Odo? Hold on. Computer, lights to 50%. Sorry,” he said, “I find the dark more appropriate, somehow, when it’s so late.”

“It’s not a problem, doctor. How is he?”

“He’s well. I mean, the surgery went well. As for the underlying stress ...“

Odo nodded. “After we spoke, I took a careful look around his cell.” Odo placed a cloth cutter and a small Bajoran phaser on the desk.

Julian leaned forward, picking up and turning over each of the items in turn. “Yes,” he said, “These are consistent with his injuries.” He tried not to think of those injuries, the nightmarish pattern with which Garak had decorated himself.

“I also found this.”

Julian frowned. “A measuring device?”

“With a unique feature – it broadcasts a Cardassian bio-signal when a scanner is activated in its vicinity.”

Julian understood suddenly why the normal scanner readings had bothered him: a programmed randomness was never truly random, and his unconscious had noticed that disparity. He should have listened to his misgivings, but - he shook his head and kicked his foot against the back of his chair. “Why does he have to be so damn difficult all the time?” he asked, knowing the uselessness of the question but needing to voice it regardless.

“Is that what you think he’s being?” Odo asked, his voice thick with skepticism.

Julian crossed his arms truculently and leaned back in his chair. “He went out of his way to hide the fact that he needed help, didn’t he?”

“And that surprises you?”

“No, Odo.” He wanted to slam his hands on the desk but, mindful of his patient, he stretched out his fingers and laid them down slowly on the surface instead, letting out a deep exhale. “But it frustrates me. It frustrates the hell out of me.”

“Because he should ask for help,” Odo persisted.

“Yes. Of course he should.” Julian wanted to shout. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Odo shook his head. “Should is only a society’s expectations, doctor. Garak is a Cardassian, a member of the Order – those are the shoulds that govern him.”

Julian was silent, neither replying nor looking up. After a moment he stood and went to Garak’s side. _I don’t want a lecture_ , he thought, _I want comfort._ He considered the still form before him. Garak’s face was relaxed, serene … beautiful. He reached down and adjusted the cover, brushed a strand of hair from Garak’s eyes. He didn’t want a lecture, but maybe he needed one.

“It’s just – I just want to help him,” he admitted.

Odo came to stand beside him. He stood looking gravely at Garak for a minute, then cast an uncertain glance at Julian. He sighed, then said, “Have you considered, doctor, that being helped puts one at a disadvantage – a disadvantage that you’ve never incurred in turn? There’s little friendship without reciprocity.”

Julian churned the words over in his mind. “I haven't before, no.” he said finally.

Odo nodded. “We can talk about alternative arrangements for Garak tomorrow. It’s late, doctor. Perhaps you should get some rest.”

“Maybe later. Goodnight, Odo.”

‘Goodnight, doctor.”

After Odo left, Julian switched the lights off and settled back down in his chair, to wait and to think. He had promised Garak that he would stay. He didn’t know if Garak had heard the words, or if the promise had mattered to him, but he meant to keep it.


	15. Day One Hundred and Forty Two

Ben Sisko’s desk bore the burden of his unprofitable morning: unsteady stacks of unsigned requests, requisitions, and applications. He spent his days approving, questioning, modifying, and dismissing sundry requests – urgent requests, mundane requests, asinine requests, spiritual requests, requests for which he had no authority - shuffling through an unending queue.

The trick was to give to each request sufficient but not unnecessary effort and attention. He eyed the form on his desk, and the two men who had brought it to him. “You’re both in agreement, then?”

“Yes, Captain,” said Julian.

“It would make things easier,” said Odo. “It’s a strain – the cells aren’t intended for long-term use - not to mention that I’ve had to let an officer go recently.”

“And it would be better for Garak,” added Julian.

Sisko bit back his immediate response - that ‘better for Garak’ wasn’t his priority - because it _was_ the doctor’s priority, and rightfully so. “Medically preferable, you said in your request. Care to elaborate on the details?” Sisko knew from experience the concrete facts that cryptic words could conceal.

Julian glanced at Odo. “No, not unless necessary, sir.”

Sisko considered. Was it necessary? His eyes moved to the pyramid of unfinished requests stranded on his desk. It was Garak, true, and Garak always warranted caution – but he trusted his officers, and he could foresee no appreciable harm. “No, it isn’t,” he answered. “Your joint recommendation is enough for me.” He grinned before adding, “Let’s just hope it’s enough for the Chief.”

xxx

Garak nestled in the fluffy sanctuary of his flannel sheets, luxuriating in their softness, in the warmly humid air and subdued lighting, in the sublime comfort of freedom, however transient or constrained. He knew he should not revel in such base and vulgar pleasures, but he could not help the thrum of satisfaction that rumbled in his chest. Tain had always condemned his hedonistic tendencies; a little hypocritical, thought Garak, of a man with an obscene collection of fine kanar and plushy cushions on his chairs.

He had been brought to his quarters to recover and felt no compulsion to get up. He was not so imprudent as to deny himself rest without reason, like a reckless and unseasoned operative, nor to obsess over outcomes he could not control. Tomorrow, or the day after, he would be returned to his cell; worry would only impede his rest. Fortunately, he had not only his present physical comforts to distract him, but the profound emotional comfort of having somehow regained Julian’s friendship – friendship and maybe ... something more?

He settled back in the sheets, indulging in the memory.

xxx

He woke in the dark, to the certainty that something was wrong. He had been on the operating table, in the infirmary, only a second ago, only it couldn’t have been a second ago – he was in a bed now, monitors beeping gently beside him. Where was he? What had happened to him? His inability to bridge the black crevasse in his memory unnerved him. Julian. He had promised to stay – hadn’t he? Was it a dream? Was he still in his cell? Was he -

“Garak?”

Garak gasped and opened his eyes. Julian was there, at his side, concerned eyes and hands reaching out to steady him.

“Hey there,” Julian whispered.

Intense relief rushed through him. Safety, such as he had known only briefly, as a child, wrapped itself around him. He had an irrational desire to stay in the infirmary forever, concealed in the dark, Julian watching over him.

“How do you feel?” Julian asked, and oh, the voice was all warmth and comfort.

He didn’t know how to express the feelings, where to begin, so he simply whispered, “Warm,” infusing it with as much emotion as he could. It must have worked, for Julian smiled brilliantly.

“What time is it?” Garak whispered.

“Late.” Julian rested his fingers against Garak’s temple, checking his temperature but, as Garak noted without complaint, lingering longer than necessary. Experimentally, Garak lifted his hand and Julian met it, their fingers weaving together. Julian brought their hands down to Garak’s chest and rubbed his thumb over Garak’s knuckles.

“Elim, I’m sorry,” he said. The earnest words troubled and surprised Garak. He opened his mouth, but Julian squeezed his fingers to quiet him. “You’re my friend. I care about you, and I shouldn’t have abandoned you. I have a bad habit of that, of running, when things get difficult.”

Garak looked down at their fingers, still threaded together, not knowing what to say. The apology was unnecessary, and he would have dismissed it except for that faint note of vulnerability he heard, was unused to hearing, in Julian’s voice. Instead, he took Julian’s hand fully in his own and looked up with a gentle smile.

“I forgive you … for whatever it is you did,” he said, echoing the words Julian had said to him, long ago, when he had asked for forgiveness.

It eased the moment, broke it, and Julian blushed, laughed and removed his hand.

“Do you want anything? Another blanket?”

Garak had an abrupt desire for a molten chocolate cake, but the absurdity of it and his exhaustion overrode the impulse. He shook his head.

“Rest, then,” Julian said. “I’ll keep the bogeyman at bay.” He winked.

Garak chuffed a soft laugh at him, but nevertheless felt ridiculously reassured.

xxx

 Garak did not think it merely his imagination nor his inclination; there had been both friendship and intimacy between them that night. Yet, when he had woken again under the infirmary’s harsh light, only the friendship could be discerned. Garak had not forced the intimacy, afraid of splintering the new peace they had made. There would be time, later; he was certain the intimacy had only been suppressed, not buried.

The door chime signaled the doctor’s arrival. To Garak’s surprise, however, Odo followed Julian into the room. Garak forced the faint tightening in his chest into a smile. “Ah, Constable – come to drag me back to my dungeon?”

Odo snorted. “Don’t be melodramatic Garak.”

Julian laughed. “That’s like telling water not to be wet. But no, Mister Garak,” he said playfully, “We are not here to escort you to the holding cell – quite the opposite in fact.”

Garak cocked a disbelieving eye ridge at Julian. “Don’t tell me you’re finally listening to the esteemed holo counselor and letting me go?”

“Not likely,” said Odo. “You’ve still got two months of your sentence to serve – your well-deserved and abysmally short sentence, I might add. However, we are willing to consider an alternative - providing you agree to certain _non-negotiable_ conditions. If you don’t agree you will, of course, be returned to your cell.”

“I’m listening,” said Garak, hardening his resolve. While neither Julian nor Odo had alluded to his self-inflicted injuries, Garak knew that they knew. He would not suffer being sent to one of the Federation’s so-called treatment centres.

Julian, seeing the stiffening of his eyes, glanced nervously at Odo, who continued, unperturbed. “We’ve recommended you be allowed to participate in a work release program,” said Odo. He held up a forestalling hand. “This does not mean working in your shop, although you will still be allowed to work there two afternoons a week, as you do now. The purpose of this program is for you to make some reparation for your crime.” He fixed Garak with a look. “Fortunately for you, you’re charged with being in a restricted area and tampering with Federation equipment and not with anything more ... problematic. You’ll be assigned to assist Chief O’Brien with fixing station systems – under his strict supervision, of course.”

“I see,” said Garak, digesting the unexpected proposal. “Tell me, Odo, what was the Chief’s reaction?”

Julian interposed. “He’s happy for the help. He said, and I quote, ‘I don’t care if it’s Gul Dukat so long as he knows the difference between a right and left chain spin electron.’” Julian cast a hopeful smile at Garak, whose suspicions still clung to him like old barnacles.

“And outside that time?” Garak asked.

“When you’re off-duty, you’re free to spend your time as you like, “ said Odo. “However, you will be confined to your quarters between 19:00 and 07:00 hours and required to check in at security every morning promptly at 07:15.”

“Are those the only requirements?” Garak asked, persistently digging for the trap, knowing it was there, however deeply buried.

“Yes,” said Julian, “Except that you’d also be required to have daily meetings with me.”

And there it was. Garak whipped his attention to Julian, who threw the piercing look back at him firmly. “And the purpose of these meetings?” Garak asked, a subtle challenge in his voice.

“To monitor your health and work on strategies to cope with stress,” said Julian, not even blinking.

“I see,” said Garak. This, he realised, was also non-negotiable – in all likelihood even if he returned to his cell. He struggled with himself, then surrendered to the inevitable, his defeat sweetened by the prospect of time spent in Julian’s company. “And the holo counselor sessions?”

“Have been cancelled,” said Julian. He grinned, sensing victory. “The new holo counselor program has been installed and we’d like it to keep its ‘smug Federation ideals’ intact this time, thanks.”

Garak smiled and inclined his head in acknowledgement of the jest. The deal was almost too good to be true - he would still be suspicious if he weren’t so well acquainted with the Federation. “I accept,” he said finally. “What time tomorrow shall I report to the Chief?”

“You won’t, not for another day at least. You need to fully recover,” said Julian.

“Really, doctor, you know that Bolian fever goes as quickly as it comes,” said Garak, both amused and touched by the lie Julian and Odo had let slip to cover his true condition. “I’ve already lost that dreadful electric blue tint on my scales, my fever is gone, and I’m not seeing spots anymore.”

“Nevertheless, despite your dramatic recovery - one I’m tempted to write up for the science journals - you’ll spend today and tomorrow resting. Doctor’s orders.”

“Needless to say you’ll be confined to your quarters during that time,” added Odo.

“Of course, I wouldn’t want to risk infecting anyone else,” said Garak. “Shall we meet for breakfast instead of in security, Constable? It would be convenient, given your insistence I check in at such an unwarrantable hour.”

“I suppose that would be efficient. I’ll meet you in the Replimat.” Odo nodded and turned toward the door. “Are you coming, Doctor?”

“No, I’ll stay for a bit.” After Odo had taken his leave, Julian asked, “Can’t the two of you just admit that you like each other’s company?”

Garak clucked. “That’s not how it’s done, doctor.”

“Humans manage to be direct.”

“So do children –that hardly recommends it.”

“Hmm, well, speaking of childish, direct questions - how are you feeling?” Julian asked, coming up beside him.

Garak huffed and rolled his eyes. To his amazement, Julian sat on the bed – his bed! - and placed two fingers on his temple. “What are you doing?” he asked, tempering the alarm in his voice.

“Checking your pulse and temperature,” said Julian, with a look that added, ‘ _Of course’._

“You could just use the scanner,” Garak pointed out, his initial alarm fading to faint disappointment that Julian was staying firmly in doctor mode.

“Forgive me, I seem to have become wary of them, at least where you’re concerned. You’re doing well, by the way.” He moved his hand to press gently on Garak’s side, watching for any reaction. “No tenderness, I see. Let’s take a look.”

To Garak’s frustration, Julian was professionalism personified as he discreetly lifted Garak’s shirt and ran his fingers over the faint scar.

“Good, no sign of infection. Now, sit up a little more.” Julian fetched extra cushions and fussed while Garak, grumbling, propped himself up. Julian left, then returned a minute later with toasted flatbread and fruit, one of the few breakfasts he and Garak both enjoyed. He placed a large, flat pillow on Garak’s lap and balanced Garak’s tray on it precariously.

“Really, doctor, eating in bed?”

Julian grinned. “There’s no harm in being indulged once in awhile.”

Garak chose not to share Tain’s frequent and vehement declarations against the evils of indulgence. “Perhaps not,” he said traitorously.

To his surprise, he found he enjoyed the experience, crumbs notwithstanding, and was sorry when Julian cleared the dishes. Julian brought back a glass of water, which he deposited on the nightstand.

“Rest today,” said Julian seriously. “Sleep as much as you can. It’s okay to get up if you feel like it, take a bath or whatever, but nothing strenuous. I’ll come by tonight after my shift’s over to check on you, but comm anytime if you need anything, all right?”

After Julian left, Garak considered his changed circumstances with considerable relief. Feeling satisfied, he swept the crumbs from the bed onto the floor in a further act of defiance against his father, burrowed back under the covers, let out a contented sigh, and went to sleep.


	16. Day One Hundred and Forty Seven

“It’s so nice, having lunch here,” said Ziyal, cursing herself for breaking, with her nervousness, a hitherto companionable silence.

“It’s always nice spending time in your company, my dear,” replied Garak.

Ziyal risked a look at his eyes, trying and failing to parse the expression she found there. Surely there was warmth there, not just politeness, not just fond tolerance? She forgot herself, staring, and saw his eyes become quizzical, amused. She blushed and looked down at her soup, brushing her hair back from her face. She cursed this inheritance from her Bajoran background; Cardassians didn’t blush.

“I’m so glad you’re out of that cell,” she added, speaking partly to fill space and partly to deny the truth, that she wasn’t wholly happy, that she selfishly missed having him to herself for part of every morning.

He smiled – Ziyal could definitely peg it as polite this time – and handed the conversation back to her. “How are your preparations for the exhibition coming?” he asked.

“Not bad.” After hearing of Quark’s ‘kind offer’, Kira had unleashed all the piled up frustrations from living with the O’Briens and and volubly harangued Quark until he not only gave Ziyal the entire commission fee for her portraits but also ‘offered’ to host her first art exhibition. “I’m really looking forward to it. It’s a lot more work than I expected, and with Nerys on Bajor right now, she can’t help me out like she was planning.” She held her breath, hoping she had been suitably Cardassian, suitably subtle in suggesting they spend more time together.

To her disappointment, he frowned. “My dear, if you need me to speak with young Mr. Sisko about fulfilling his promises, I would be happy to do so. Frankly, I’m surprised at him.”

“Oh, no,” she recovered. “Jake _has_ been helping me, it’s just that -”

“Mind if I join you?”

To Ziyal, Doctor Bashir - standing before them with a full tray and fuller smile - provided a timely if unwelcome interruption.

“Please do, doctor,” said Garak.

Ziyal smiled with polite venom as the doctor intruded on yet another meal. There had been tea yesterday, and lunch the day before that. She had wanted them to reconcile, she reminded herself, just not so ... enthusiastically.

Julian slopped down his tray, sauce splooshing over the side. Ziyal snatched her pictures from the table as Julian blithely began questioning Garak about some book they’d been reading.

Garak spared Ziyal a sympathetic glance before responding. “It was rather confusing, doctor. Many of the words didn’t translate.”

“That’s because they’re not real words – the author made them up,” Julian retorted, waving his fork gleefully.

“Made them – you can’t be serious.”

“I am. It - “ Julian swallowed a wet mouthful of shepherd’s pie. “The practice produces remarkably inventive and creative fiction – many of the words have even become entrenched in the language. And it has a venerable history; Shakespeare alone coined hundreds of new words.”

“That’s not a recommendation in its favour, doctor. Language must be protected from such onslaught; that’s why Cardassia has a language commission.”

“Of course it does.”

Ziyal had gamely observed the volley, trying to appear as if she had a role in the game. She threw desperate eyes at Garak, who smoothly lobbed the conversation towards her. “Language is art, doctor – it should not be constructed carelessly. Take Ziyal’s art, for example – it is fresh and original, yes, but following in a well-structured tradition.”

“Yes, it’s ironic, but I find I feel more free working within some sort of boundary – as long as it’s not too narrow, of course,” offered Ziyal.

Julian nodded politely as he took a drink of his soda. He turned back to Garak, clearly ready resume their debate, but Garak held him back firmly. “Ziyal is hosting her first art exhibit at Quark’s in six weeks,” he said pointedly.

“Oh?” said Julian, finally focusing his attention on her. “That’s great, congratulations! Has Garak been a gentleman and offered to help you?”

“Well,” Ziyal faltered, “He’s very - “

“No offer was necessary,” said Garak. “Ziyal knows she can always count on my assistance.”

Ziyal blushed again. Perhaps she had been too hard on Doctor Bashir.

“I could help too,” said Julian. “In fact, we could all do it together. And speaking of art, did you know that the Tirellisian government has just acquired an Ovisso?”

Ziyal smiled wanly and pretended to take a sudden interest in her lunch. Seething into her soup, she considered whether her sudden and fierce desire for revenge was engendered from her Cardassian or her Bajoran heritage ... she suspected it was both.

xxxxxx

“Okay, give it a go.” Miles watched as Garak activated the system, then grinned in satisfaction as the panel lights powered on in quick succession. “Would you look at that? Every system back on line.”

Garak grinned back, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve and stretching out his back. “A mere four hours later,” he said.

Miles leaned against the wall and threw his tools down. “I was thinking it would take twice as long, at least,” he said. “Y’know, I still can’t believe Cardassians deliberately build hidden secondary functions into everything – you don’t know how many hours I’ve wasted jury-rigging things and cursing Cardassian engineers.”

“It goes both ways, you know,” said Garak. “Even after years on this station, the Federation continues to confuse and confound me.”

“Huh. I guess I didn’t think of it that way. But that’s life, isn’t it? Things seeming like they’re stupid or useless, only they’re not once you get to understand ‘em.”

“I think you just summarised an entire text I once read on inter-species relations.”

“Makes me feel better about skipping most of my Species 101 classes.”

As Miles watched Garak tidy the work site, he blessed the weakness that had made him submit to Julian’s badgering. He’d thought taking on Garak would be a disaster. He’d sulked and made sullen complaints to Keiko and Kira (Kira being decidedly more sympathetic). He’d prepared for the worst, isolating Garak from his team and keeping him under his direct supervision.

He’d been wrong.

Garak was a godsend: punctual, skilled, willing, uncomplaining, innovative ... and bless the man, he could work for hours in complete silence.

Miles hesitated. “Look, I know it’s late, but would you mind giving me a hand with this final bit? Wouldn’t take more than an hour, and it would save us opening everything back up tomorrow.”

“Of course. What is it we need to do, exactly?”

“Just hook it back through the main systems, but let’s take a break first, okay? I’m too racked to think about it yet.” Miles grabbed his satchel and flopped onto the floor. After a moment, Garak gingerly lowered himself and sat with his legs crossed and his back straight against the wall.

Miles rummaged in the satchel. “Keiko always sends snacks with me,” he explained as he pulled out a battered tin. “She says I get cranky when I don’t eat regularly, so sending food is her way of saying I’ve no excuse to come home in a bad mood.”

“A kind _and_ a wise woman,” said Garak.

“She is that. Want to try? Go on,” he encouraged, as Garak hesitated. Garak delicately picked up a small piece.

“You have to try one of each – there’s three kinds,” said Miles, scooping up two more and dumping them into Garak’s hurriedly outstretched palm. Garak rearranged himself carefully, placing the sushi delicately on one knee.

Miles, mouth full, crinkled his eyes in amusement as Garak took a prim, savouring bite. “Good?” he asked.

“Divine.”

“She’s teaching Molly how to make ‘em. Molly’s real interested – says she wants to be a chef one day.”

“Wasn’t it a doctor last week?”

Miles nodded. He tended to go on about his family when he had an audience, and Garak was a good listener, not just a polite one – no doubt a holdover of his former profession, Miles reflected ironically. Still, it was nice to be listened to; there was little time for it at home and Julian, God bless him, was a talker. “Yeah, you know how kids are,” he said.

Garak smiled, a thin echo of sadness behind his voice. “No, not really. You’re a lucky man.”

“That I am,” said Miles, smothering his guilt in another mouthful of Sushi. Did Garak have a family, once, or was he truly alone? He shrugged the thought away. It was what it was. Miles was no sentimentalist, but he was glad suddenly for Garak and Julian’s reconciliation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book they are reading is A Clockwork Orange


	17. More Day One Hundred and Forty Seven

He was late. Of course the Chief’s one hour had turned into three, and of course they’d become so enmeshed in the networks and wires that they hadn’t noticed. It was only when Odo commed him with a pointed inquiry on his whereabouts that he realised the time.

He rushed to his quarters, tired, dirty and hungry, with less than a half hour to eat and shower before Julian arrived. He was thankful that the doctor – understanding of his now-full work schedule and antipathy to the infirmary – had granted his request to hold the mandatory medical appointments in his quarters.

Hurriedly stripping off his clothes, Garak stepped into the blistering steam of the shower. Contrary to his expectations, he’d appreciated the appointments in and of themselves, not simply because of Julian’s presence. He had foreseen an excruciating series of pep talks expounding the benefits of listening to his breathing and reframing his experiences – the former obvious and the latter completely unsuited to a Cardassian mind - but Julian had once again surprised him.

Julian had ignored Garak’s griping on the futility of stress reduction lessons with a flat “Anything’s got to better than your habit of sticking yourself full of holes,” and had proceeded with his program. He’d checked Garak’s baseline knowledge (assuming it, correctly, to be high) then immediately impugned the traditional Cardassian interpretation of advanced Vulcan meditation techniques.

Meditation was an area of evident interest to Julian, and as with anything that interested him, his knowledge ran deep and broad. Garak thrust back with his own formidable understanding. The technical debates that followed were heated, exhilarating. Something had shifted between them – shifted but not settled. The rhythm of their dance had intensified, yet still both of them held back, deliberate and wary, keeping to the prescribed steps.

Garak knew his defenses were crumbling. Every time they were together, Garak could hear the scorn, could feel Tain’s grave-cold hand on his shoulder. And yet ... perhaps it was Tain’s death, the death of the Order; perhaps it was the long exile, the last lonely months; perhaps it was seeing O’Brien’s family, Sisko’s; perhaps it was none of these things – but he longed for connection, and Cardassia was too cold to comfort him.

The door chimed. Surely he hadn’t been woolgathering that long? He stepped from the shower and glanced at the chronometer. Julian was early. His first instinct, to offer polite excuses through the intercom, was superceded by a sudden impulse. He would not step outside the dance, but perhaps he would provide an opening for Julian to do so, if he wished. He slipped into a robe – his attractive, Tholian silk, midnight blue robe that dramatized his eyes and clung to his ridges - and went to the door.

xxxxxxx

Julian knew he was early. He knew he should have waited, but overwhelming that was the itch to see Garak again; patience in the face of anticipation had never come easily to him. As he pushed the chime, he cautioned himself to keep control – to enjoy this intoxicating new dance, yes, but not to step outside it.

Julian had always maintained distance, maintained control. He could afford no mistakes, no intimacy; to spend even this much time in Garak’s company was dangerous. He was too perceptive. Did he suspect? Did he know? It troubled Julian that that uncertainty excited him.

He pushed the chime again, frowning. Surely Garak was in? A sudden worry surfaced, a sudden image of Garak bleeding and alone in his quarters. He began to call for the medical override when the door opened and Garak -

Garak was fine, more than fine, standing there dripping wet, hair disheveled, sleek midnight blue robe clinging to his ridges, hinting at hidden muscles. Julian swallowed. One forgot sometimes, with Garak’s garish, padded outfits and slick hair and affected mannerisms, one forgot that he could be something ... quite different if he chose.

“Ah, doctor. Please come in” said Garak, and of course the damned lizard was calm, cool and collected as he stepped aside and Julian stumbled into the room. “I do apologise for my state,” Garak ran his hands down the his robe in a way that seemed blatantly provocative to Julian, “But the Chief and I finished quite late, and as you can see I’m not quite ready for you yet.”

  


Julian’s body and brain battered him ruthlessly with contradictory demands: _Grab him, you moron! Kiss him! Slide your hands under that robe and – No! Stay away. Maintain control._

Julian swallowed down the rush of desire, dispelling it in a polite breath. “It’s my fault for being early,” he said, in his best James Bond butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth suave and sophisticated manner. “Shall I come back later?“ Two could play at calm, cool and collected, he thought triumphantly.

“There’s no need,” said Garak.

‘ _Is he disappointed?’_ thought Julian wildly. ‘ _Do I want him to be disappointed?’_

“If you’ll excuse me,” Garak continued, “I won’t be a moment.” He disappeared into the bedroom, and Julian closed his eyes, fighting the urge to follow him, using the rapid techniques he had perfected – a necessity in his profession - to dampen his arousal. _Maintain control, Julian,_ he thought. 

“Have you eaten?” Julian called out, desperate for a diversion. “I could replicate you something.”

“Thank you, doctor. I would appreciate that,” Garak answered from the bedroom.

Julian replicated a Cardassian stew he knew Garak enjoyed and two cups of tea. He sat at the table, tea in hand, waiting. He half expected – hoped – for Garak’s choice of dress to be either too tight or too loose, but he was disappointed. Garak emerged from the bedroom armoured in a conservative, neck-hugging tunic over full thermal padding.

Garak sat primly at the table, laying a napkin on his lap.

“Is that okay?” Julian asked, indicating the stew?

“Yes, doctor,” said Garak, “Much better than the salad I tried at lunch.”

“Don’t mention lunch,” Julian said, groaning at the sudden memory.

“Oh? You seemed to enjoy it at the time.”

“Yes, it was the tongue lashing I got for dessert that ruined it. I, uh, forgot – for the third time in as many weeks – that I was supposed to meet Leeta for lunch.”

“Ah.”

“Ah, indeed.”

“And the damage?”

“More than even a clever tailor could mend, I’m afraid. We’ve broken up – well, not officially,” he amended, “We’ve got to perform the Rite of Separation first.” Julian hesitated. Should he? He didn’t want to step outside the dance himself, but perhaps he could provide an opening for Garak? “You see before you a free and lonely man,” he said, spreading his hands deprecatingly, eyelashes fluttering hopefully.

Garak dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “I can’t imagine such a handsome, intelligent and charming man as yourself to be alone for long, doctor. In fact, I’m certain that new engineer working with Chief O’Brien, Lieutenant Janissen, has been giving you longing looks.”

Julian’s hopes faltered under the polite deflection. _‘Idiot,’_ he said to himself, ‘ _You can’t afford to get involved, remember?’_ He proffered a polite smile in return. “I’ll keep that in mind, but we’re not here to discuss my love life, are we? Where did we leave off? Tipell’s variation of the Saivil method? ” At least there was still the dance.

Garak grinned, mischief in his eyes, and spread his hands. “Lead on, my dear doctor.”

  



	18. Day One Hundred and Sixty One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place during the DS9 episode The Assignment, where Keiko is possessed by a pah-Wraith and Miles O'Brien has to (pretend to) sabotage the station to save her. Odo is suspicious and investigating, which is why he's in a bad mood.

“I’m going to leave you to work on the replicator system alone today. I need to recalibrate the optronic integrator on level five.”

“Of course, Chief,” replied Garak smoothly, suspicion surging within him. “But I’d be happy to help you with recalibrations if you prefer.”

“No, I’ll take care of it myself. It’ll be more efficient this way.”

“Of course. How often do you want me to check in?”

“Only if there’s a problem you can’t fix. I’m going to be busy, so don’t interrupt unless it’s important.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

After the Chief left, Garak began work on the replicator system. Out of curiosity, he also set himself to hacking various systems, tracking the Chief. He wondered what desperation was underlying the deception; the Chief was too intelligent to blithely tell such a thin story. Garak determined that Miles was reconfiguring the communication and sensor relays, but the why eluded him. He was just considering taking a ‘break’ to do some reconnaissance when a snarling Odo set upon him.

“Garak. What do you think you’re doing?”

Garak blinked doe eyes at him. “Working on the replicator system. As instructed.”

“You’re not supposed to be working unsupervised,” Odo snapped.

“You’ll have to take that up with Chief O’Brien,” Garak shrugged, wondering what had put Odo in such a mood.

“I will. Regardless, you’ll have to stop. It’s a violation of your work release, even if by some miracle you’re not to blame.”

“Really, Odo. The only things I can access from this site are the toilets and replicators,” Garak lied. “All I could do from here is pull some puerile prank – and you’ll have to admit vulgar is hardly my style.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Have it your way. Just let me shut this down – we wouldn’t want the replicators spitting out slug soup because I was sloppy now, would we?” Tapping in a few codes, Garak shut down the panel. Twenty minutes later, he found himself locked in his quarters, an empty day ahead of him.

Normally he would choose a project with which to occupy himself, but the doubts that had dogged him all week refused to allow him space to think about anything other than Julian and whether he should tell him of his feelings.

He didn’t know what to do, and the indecision – so foreign to his character – offended him.  He was accustomed to understanding the treacherous workings of his own mind - he lied only to others - but he truly could not say if he hesitated through caution or cowardice.

He reminded himself that he had reason for caution.  He had reason to be suspicious of his motives, reason to be wary of weakness.  His incarceration had affected him deeply: the constant discomfort and surveillance, the stress of the claustrophobia, the pain of his injuries, the distance and fights with Julian, the sweetness of their reconciliation, the intoxication of their new flirtation. Garak was tired, exhausted, shaky.

And yet ... he was also hopeful, tendrils of optimism, of new beginnings, taking root in the hard clay. Tain was dead, the Order destroyed, Cardassia forbidden him. He could no longer lie buried with them nor starve himself on empty faith. He would not abandon Cardassia, his commitment nor his duty – but he could, perhaps, allow room for something else to grow. 

He decided.  He would tell Julian that night.  He was, after all, a gardener. 

The decision lightened him.  He would do it. He would tell Julian how he felt, and hopefully – he dismissed the possibility of Julian’s rejection. Success in any operation came from planning and focus.  He checked the chronometer. There was time, but much to be done: cleaning and arranging his quarters, certainly; shining his scales and selecting something seductive to wear, decidedly; but also determining the best approach, anticipating Julian’s responses and reservations, building contingency plans and fallback plans. He worked steadily through the afternoon, checking and rechecking his arrangements.

When Julian arrived, he was ready. He welcomed Julian into his quarters and noted with smug approval how Julian’s eyes drifted down the plunging neckline of his deep-green shirt and came to rest on his exposed chula.

“Good evening, Doctor,” he said.  "I hope you're well?"

Julian pulled his eyes away from Garak’s chest and struggled to compose himself.  “Um, yes.  Quite well.  You?"

"Very well, thank you, Doctor," said Garak, leading him into the room.

Julian flopped on the sofa and started scrolling through his PADD.  "I was thinking we could look at that Parok article tonight." he said.

“Actually,” said Garak, “I was hoping that I could share a Cardassian meditative technique with you tonight.”

Julian looked up with interest. “Oh?  Are you sure you won’t be giving away state secrets?”

“Very amusing, doctor.  Now, come over here.” Julian, grinning, stood and went to where Garak had laid a rectangular mat on the floor.  Garak instructed him.  “Kneel, but keep your body upright. Yes, that’s it. Now, I do the same.” Garak placed himself of front of Julian, their bodies only inches apart.

“That’s ... rather close.”

“Yes. Now, bend your arms at the elbow and raise up both hands, palms out. Good.” Garak held up his own palms, facing Julian. “The point,” he explained, “Is to feel the other person’s energy, to sync with it. Close your eyes. Try to shift closer and closer, but without ever touching. It’s important to keep your posture. You want to concentrate on feeling the space between.”

Julian frowned. “For how long?”

“Until you perfectly sense the other person. Patience, doctor. They say that if done correctly, you can feel the other person’s emotions, even read their mind.”

“Like you'd ever teach me to do that.”

“Have I ever been anything but transparent?" Garak teased.

"Never."

"Exactly.  Now, close your eyes.”

Garak closed his own eyes and concentrated. He let his body attune to Julian’s, let his breathing slow and his body relax. He waited until he felt Julian relax, felt him edge closer. Carefully, as if accidentally, Garak brushed Julian’s fingers with his own. When Julian’s breath faltered in response, Garak leaned in and kissed him.

Julian's reaction was automatic and immediate.  He pressed his whole body forward, their knees and chests flush, their fingers entwining.  Garak gasped as their lips met and at the sound Julian suddenly pushed himself back, scrambling to his feet.

Garak followed him cautiously. “I’m sorry,” he said, “If you don’t want -”

“I do – I want – but I can’t.“ Julian pulled himself up short. “Look, we should – I should go. We’ll pick back up tomorrow on those Vulcan techniques, okay?” Julian tried to brush past him.

Garak felt the connection supporting them crack, saw the distance frosting Julian’s eyes. He grasped Julian’s arm. “Don’t,” he said harshly, then again, gently, “Don’t.”

Julian startled, stared into his eyes. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t _run_ , Julian.”

Julian pulled back and looked down. “Elim -” he faltered.

Garak pursued him, held onto him, hands gripping his forearms. He shook him, pulled their foreheads together. “Julian,” he breathed, “Please. I love you.”

Julian clutched Garak’s arms. He closed his eyes and swallowed. “I love you too, Elim, I do, but -”

Garak smiled. He altered his tone, gentle, teasing. “Now, I know you have reservations about this, but I’m quite certain your concerns, like much of your literary opinions, are baseless and, frankly, ridiculous.”

Julian pulled back. “Really? This is you winning me over?”

“I am merely trying to address your ludicrous and unwarrantable objections, my dear.”

“And I suppose, being so clever, you already know what those objections are?” Julian crossed his arms and tilted his head skeptically.

“I have some theories, yes.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

Garak held up a finger. “One: you could be concerned about possible incompatibilities, given that I’m a Cardassian. I can promise you that, based on my extensive perusal of human sexual literature and personal experience, we’re quite compatible. I’d be quite happy to teach you.”

“I _am_ a doctor, Garak. I’m aware of how things work. And who’s to say I wouldn’t be teaching you?”

“We could take turns.”

“ _If_ we -”

Garak interrupted him, holding up a second  finger. “Two: you could be intimated by my formidable fashion sense, given your abysmal failures in that area. However, I am willing to dress you myself every day. And to undress you, of course.”

“Very generous of you.”

“Of course.” Garak hesitated, then held up a third finger. “Three: you’re worried I’ll find out that you’re genetically enhanced.”

Julian’s amused smile collapsed.  He stumbled back but Garak grabbed his hands, kept him close.  “How long?” Julian demanded.  “How long have you known?  When we fought, in the infirmary -”

Garak rubbed his thumbs over the backs of Julian’s hands.  “I didn’t know then, but - I admit, your reactions were ... surprising.”

“When you said I wasn’t human.”

“Yes.”

“How did you figure it out?”

“A number of things, most of them insignificant in themselves – you needn’t worry it was obvious, Julian, or that anyone else knows.  Only, say, a trained observer with a suspicious nature, an eidetic memory, a personal investment in you and too much time on his hands would ever figure it out.” Garak tugged gently, and Julian allowed himself to be pulled a little closer. Garak reached up and ran a hand through his hair.

“I – I don’t know what to say.” Julian shook his head. “You know, I’ve pictured it for years, how it would be, how it would feel when I was found out -”

“You haven’t been found out. You haven’t done anything wrong. The Federation is prejudiced -”

“With reason.”

“I disagree.”

“It doesn’t matter. If they find out -”

“They won’t.  Julian, I love you.  I’d never use this against you.”

Julian exhaled, pulling Garak into a tight embrace, burying his face in his hair. They stood, silent, holding onto each other. Finally, Julian pulled back. “Funny enough, I believe you,” he said softly, grazing his knuckles over Garak’s cheek.

Garak grabbed his hand, kissed his knuckles, then walked backwards, leading him to the couch.  He sat and pulled Julian against his chest, wrapping his arms around him and resting his chin on Julian’s shoulder, letting the silence and the nearness settle them.  After a long while, Julian spoke.

“When I cut myself off from you before ...”

When he didn't finish, Garak questioned him gently.  “You were worried I'd find out?”

Julian shook his head. “No. It wasn't that, not at first - when you attacked the Founders, I wasn’t angry. I found myself ... almost agreeing with what you had tried to do. Before I met you, I never would have felt that way. I always knew what was right, and now I’m less sure - and that terrifies me. I’m an augment, Garak. I’m capable of doing ... terrible things. ”

“Julian.” Garak measured his words. “Everyone is capable of doing terrible things. Morality is complex – understanding that is simply a sign of maturity. Your integrity is not a shaky foundation that’s going to disintegrate in the first storm.”

Julian sank back further against him. “You know, I thought the world would collapse when someone found out, but it’s ... nice, to be able to talk about it. It makes it seem almost normal, but ...” 

Garak felt Julian tense again. “Julian?”

“Are you sure – are you sure getting involved with me is a good idea?”

“I'm not the Federation, Julian.  I don't care about your enhancements.”

“I know, but – Garak, you don’t know what it means to be with me, the real me. I’ve hidden a lot of things. I’m strong – a lot stronger than you could guess. I could hurt you. And you don’t know how my brain works. I’m always calculating things. It would be like dating a computer.”

Garak huffed a gentle laugh into his ear. “Computers aren’t generally this melodramatic.”

“I’m _serious,_ Garak.” Julian pushed himself up and twisted around to look at him. “I’m an augment. You don’t – you can’t know the implications of that.” Julian stood up and began pacing.

Garak was silent, waiting for Julian to calm, calculating what he could say. When Julian huddled forlornly into a chair on the other side of the room, Garak went and knelt before him, hand on his knee, looking up at him. Julian refused to meet his eye. “Do you know that enhancements are viewed quite differently on Cardassia? They’re not common, and not just because they're expensive.  It’s more than that.  It’s – well, let’s just say that respectable families don’t have it done to their children.”

When he didn’t continue, Julian raised his head. “Why? Why would anyone have it done, then?”

Garak sighed and made an abortive gesture with his hand. “It’s ... for children without connections - orphans, bastards, those of low caste. Children who show promise, children who could be made into ... useful tools of the state.”

Julian reached out a tentative hand. “You don’t … you can’t mean …”

“It’s not exactly the same, of course. Cardassians are stronger than humans, but humans have better hearing, so likely I'm stronger than you but your hearing is superior to mine.  Your listening skills, on the other hand …”

Julian ignored the jest. “You can’t be serious.”

“And of course the objectives were likely different.  I'm assuming your enhancements were general, designed to give you an edge in whatever you tried.  Cardassians would never be so haphazard in their approach.  Enhancements are always designed with a specific purpose in mind.  We would never bother enhancing abilities easily obtained elsewhere.  I’m more intelligent than most, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, but calculations?  We have computers for that.”

Julian barked out a laugh. “I have – no idea whether or not you’re telling the truth or if this is some elaborate lie to make me feel better.”

“If you can't figure it out, then perhaps your intelligence isn't as enhanced as I'd assumed.”

Julian placed his hands on Garak’s cheeks and tilted his head up so he could look at him. “The Obsidian Order would have adequate resources."

"They would."

"And Tain would want perfect operatives."

Garak looked away. “He would.”  Tain had wanted a perfect son.  Bitterness rose in him. “But pawns are disposable.”

“You are more than that,” said Julian, fierce and protective.

Garak, feeling suddenly tired and overwrought, hung his head. “I want to be. Sometimes I even feel I could be.”

Julian ran soft fingers through his hair, down his face. He lifted his chin, examined him. He started to laugh. Garak relaxed.

“What?” he said.

“Even if it's not true, it should be.”

“Oh?”

“Well, you’re so bloody good at everything.” Julian slid onto the floor beside him and pulled him into another embrace. He laughed into Garak’s shoulder. “This.  This is crazy. Us.”

“Is it?” Garak was content to carry out the conversation where they were, holding each other on the floor. “Our situation, perhaps. But if you take away all of that history - Earth, Cardassia, Starfleet, the Order - then I think the two of us are very well matched indeed.”

“I suppose you’ve got a point there. But we shouldn’t rush. This is ... a very big step, you know.”

“If you’re not -”

“Shush.” Julian squeezed him tightly. “I’m very sure. I just want to do this right. You’re still under house arrest and – shit, Elim, your quarters are monitored!” Julian launched himself into the air.

Garak rolled his eyes as he stood. “Really, Julian, do you think I’d neglect the basics? I scrambled the communication devices earlier. All Odo will see tonight is a systems malfunction. Fortunately, you – my very reliable Starfleet officer witness – can attest that we were simply exploring ways to reduce stress.”

Julian grinned. “Well, that’s certainly one way to describe it.” He kissed Garak again, but then stepped back. “We do need to wait, though. There’s Leeta to consider, the constant surveillance, not to mention that you’re under my medical supervision until the end of your sentence.”

Garak nodded. It was what he was going to suggest, but he still didn’t like it.

“It’s only 19 days until your release,” said Julian, seeing his face, “And we’ve been putting each other off for _years_. Surely we can wait a little longer?”

“I’m a Cardassian, Julian. I’m used to sacrifices.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who offered condolences (my father passed away when I first posted this chapter and posting felt like connecting with friends in a quiet, normal kind of way).


	19. Day One Hundred and Seventy Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter refers to the great episode Trials and Tribble-ations (where the senior crew travels back in time to the famous Original Series Tribble episode) and also the decidedly not great episode Let He Who Is Without Sin where Bashir/Leeta go to break up, hitching along with Worf/Jadzia.

Garak eyed the dress critically, squinting in the unflattering light that Starfleet had insisted on installing in his shop, and deemed it sufficient. More decoration – lace, ruffles, sashes – would only ruin the elegance of the fabric’s subtle patterns.

Ziyal would be pleased. She might even forgive him for reneging on his offer to help her hang artwork in Quark’s (the exhibition now timed to coincide, at her insistence, with his release). No doubt she thought him uncaring, but the cancellation was for her benefit. She had plenty of help in the form of a smitten and awkward Jake Sisko. Garak generally approved of Jake (options on the station were limited), and he’d known that his continued presence could only hinder Jake’s pursuit.

He folded the dress in tissue paper and placed it in a box. He took his time, contrasting a rich indigo ribbon against the muted gold of the wrapping paper, then attached an elegant, hand-written card.

He still finished too soon. Odo was not due for another fifteen minutes, and he had no other pressing projects. As always, his mind flew straight to Julian when freed of work, true as any homing dove - though much less pure.

Ever since that night he had been pursued by lusty, lurid, lewd, lascivious fantasies. Julian, naked on his knees. Julian, gasping and whimpering. Julian, holding him down. Julian.

It was all right for Julian, whom he’d barely seen. Julian, who was busy with meetings and work. Julian, who had traipsed off into the past on a darling la-di-da temporal adventure, returning with tall tales and Tribbles. Julian, who even now was on his way to Risa with Leeta for the Rite of Separation, a week-long I’m-so-over-you fuckfest.

With a grimace, he realised he’d twisted and ripped the ribbon on Ziyal’s gift. He sighed and started to undo it, both annoyed at and grateful for the added work. He had just finished when Odo, painfully punctual, took an awkward step into the shop. Remarkable, thought Garak as he noted the painfully stiff posture, that such a pedestrian pursuit as pyjama shopping should so unnerve him.

“Good afternoon, Odo. I’ve already pulled out same samples for you,” said Garak, indicating a neatly folded stack of clothing on his work table, “But I have to admit I’m curious – why now? I’ve been telling you for months you should get yourself something comfortable to sleep in.”

“Now is as good as time as any, isn’t?” said Odo, hackles up. Garak refrained from replying and Odo relented. “It was your imminent release, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh?”

“I realised suddenly that I haven’t been a Changeling for almost six months – it’s time I stopped enduring as a Solid and started living as one.”

“An interesting, and dare I say wise, resolution.” said Garak. “One should always accept one’s circumstances and adapt.”

Odo raised an eyebrow. “Are you speaking of personal experience?”

“How perceptive, Odo! As a matter of fact I am. Let me show you something.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a round, soft, yellow mound of fur.

“Garak!” threatened Odo, reaching out to grab the object, “You can’t have Tribbles in here! Don’t you know -”

Garak pulled the Tribble out of reach and held up his other hand. “Calm yourself, Odo. It isn’t real.” He placed the Tribble on the counter. “I made it myself. I’m selling them for a strip of latinum each; I expect they’ll be popular. ”

Odo touched it hesitantly. “It looks real.”

“That is rather the point. And it not only looks and feels real but ...” Garak reached over and patted the Tribble.

“It’s purring.”

“That’s not all. Squeeze it.”

Odo gave Garak a dubious look but did as he was told. A moment later, he said, “An internal heating source?”

“The perfect bedtime companion, especially for those who lack other companionship.”

Odo shook his head. “Just the pyjamas for now.”

“Of course.” Garak, however, noticed that Odo kept his hand on the Tribble as Garak laid out the samples. “By the way, Odo, I heard a rumour that Ensign Sorkin left your employ rather suddenly.”

“Did you.”

“Come now, Odo. Was it his lack of manners? They were rather atrocious, even for a Bajoran.”

“If you must know, it was his unfortunate habit of misplacing items. Perhaps you came across something he accidentally left behind?”

Garak paused to consider. “No, I can’t say that I have - although, now that you mention it, I did find a rather ugly scarf in my cell once.”

Odo grunted and returned his attention to the selection of pyjamas laid out before him. “This one is nice,” he said at last, letting the velvety thick material run through his fingers.

“Yes, it’s a wonderful material. Let me just get a colour more suited to you.”

“What does the colour matter? I’ll be sleeping in them. Alone. In the dark.”

“Ah, but will you always be alone?”

“Garak -”

“One must be prepared for every eventuality, Odo.” Garak disappeared into the back and returned a moment later with the same pyjamas in beige.

Odo perked up. “That’s the same colour as my uniform.”

“Yes, I thought you’d appreciate that. They should fit well, but let me know if they don’t.” Garak packed the pyjamas in a bag and tucked the Tribble – that Odo hadn’t stopped petting – on top.

“I’m not buying a Tribble, Garak.”

“I know, but you would be doing me a favour by trying it out. It’s a prototype, and I need someone who will give me honest feedback without worrying about hurting my feelings.”

“Well. I _am_ honest ... and I’ve been told that my judgment is refined.”

“Quite. Try it for a week and let me know what you think.”

Odo left, his fingers covertly fondling the Tribble.

  


xxxxxxxxxxx

  


It was near closing time when Sisko came in. He looked, as he always did when entering Garak’s shop, like a cheetah stepping into the lion’s den. _Smart man,_ thought Garak.

“Garak. You mentioned that you had a ... delivery for me?”

“Ah yes. Please do come in, Captain.” As Sisko warily approached the counter, Garak placed the item before him. As expected, Sisko’s face expanded in disbelief. Garak smiled in amusement.

“Plaid pyjamas?” Sisko asked.

The smile became smug. “Do you not like them?”

Sisko sighed and shut his eyes in weary patience. “They’re very nice, Garak, but I fail to see -”

“A gift for your father,” said Garak smoothly. “Jake told me you were sending him some things for his birthday. I was hoping you would send this on my behalf.”

“Oh.” Sisko fingered the pyjamas as if he were looking for hidden explosives. Finding none, nor any obvious reason to refuse, he replied that he would.

“Excellent,” said Garak. He added, with exaggerated nonchalance, “By the way, you don’t ship things through the Phose system, do you?”

Sisko let the pyjamas fall and looked up quickly. “Any particular reason not to?”

Garak pulled out a box from under the counter. “Oh, no. It just seems a rather tempting target for a Klingon attack in these troubled times. I’d hate for the package to be damaged.”

“I’ll ... keep that in mind,” said Sisko.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Garak. His contacts had indicated a likely attack on the system in the next two weeks. He pulled out plaid paper and began wrapping the box.

Sisko noticed Ziyal’s gift. “Two presents?” he asked.

Garak followed his gaze. “It’s for Ziyal, a dress for the exhibition.” He returned to his task. “Will you be attending?”

Sisko grinned. “I wouldn’t miss it. Jake has been talking of practically nothing else all week.”

Garak passed the finished package over. Sisko took it, but Garak didn’t release his grip. He looked pointedly at Sisko. “They’re becoming quite good friends. I must say I’ve encouraged it.” He paused. “She’s really a very sweet girl, Captain,” he said, releasing his grip on the package.

“So I’ve heard. Perhaps it’s time I got to know her better.”

“That’s just what I’d hoped,” said Garak, relieved once again at Sisko’s grasp of subtlety. Really, the man was almost Cardassian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garak giving Sisko a gift for his father is a reference to the first fic in this series, The Birthday Gift


	20. Day One Hundred and Eighty

“That’s it?” Garak asked, as he pressed his thumbprint into the PADD.

‘That’s it,” said Odo. “You are now officially released from custody.”

Garak removed his thumb from the PADD. He felt a sudden avalanche of panic and anxiety suffocating him. He had expected to feel relief, but it was as if the tired and tattered strings tying him together had suddenly snapped. He opened his mouth but the word stuck. He swallowed.

Odo gave no outward acknowledgement of Garak’s distress. “I suppose Dr. Bashir isn’t back from Risa yet?” he said.

Garak shook his head, then scraped his voice back together. “No, but he should be back anytime. I thought -” Garak cut himself off. He was not about to admit his hope that Julian would be back from Risa in time for his release. He coughed. “I thought he could use a longer vacation, myself.”

Odo snorted. _“_ I don’t see the point of vacations – not if one chooses one’s vocation properly.”

Garak smiled – really, Odo was endearing. “One would think you were made for yours. Speaking of which,” he added, “Charming as your supervision has been, I must say I’m glad to be rid of it. You _have_ disabled the surveillance in my shop and quarters, I trust?”

“I have. Frankly, I’ve had enough of you and Dr. Bashir flirting, and I have absolutely no interest in finding out what you get up to tonight.”

“Flirting?”

“Give it a rest, Garak. I’m familiar with Cardassian and human mating behaviour, and far too familiar with your and Dr. Bashir’s behaviour.”

“You’re awfully confident in your knowledge for a man who’s never been on a date,” said Garak. He looked towards Quark’s. “I imagine the party’s in full swing by now. Are you coming?”

“Certainly. Someone has to keep an eye on things.”

The noise expanded exponentially as they made their way across the Promenade to the pandemonium of Quark’s. The bar was overrun with pictures and people. Garak’s chest tightened. Times of vulnerability dramatically deepened his dislike of crowds. He took a deep breath and smothered the panic with one of the Vulcan techniques he had been practicing with Julian. He found it surprisingly useful, enough so that he was able to brace himself and push forward through the crowd.

Garak’s first priority was finding Ziyal, but his disobedient eyes kept flicking from side to side, scanning the crowds for Julian’s face, Julian’s uniform. He could not see him, but he found Ziyal tangled in a thick knot of admirers. When she saw him she slipped free, streaming toward him in her glittering green dress, Jake Sisko trailing hopefully in her wake.

“My dear,” said Garak, allowing her the embrace. “Congratulations. Your pictures are marvelous, as are you.”

Ziyal grinned shyly. “You came. I’m so glad.” She tugged at his hand. “Come with me. I have something for you, to celebrate your release.”

She led him to the back of the room, where she had hung a small number of sketches. She gestured at the picture in the centre.

It is a sketch of him and Julian in the Replimat. They are debating of course, but what is most interesting is how their bodies mirror each other. Each is leaning forward, brandishing hands in emphasis of their words, faces alight with predatory smiles and glinting eyes.

The image relit the burning ache for Julian that lay smoldering in his gut. Garak checked the impulse to lift his hand and touch the sketch. He turned to Ziyal. “I am touched my dear, truly. Thank you.”

“I’ll bring it by your shop tomorrow. I was thinking we could hang it after the exhibition, but, well, Jake invited me to dinner with him and his father.” Ziyal stammered, looking down at her shoes.

“That sounds lovely,” said Garak. “It’s a time for new beginnings, is it not?” He let his gaze wander over to Jake Sisko, who was also busy examining the floor. Ziyal blushed again.

There was a line of people waiting to talk to and congratulate Ziyal. Garak let her go and retreated to the relative safety and quiet at the back of the bar. It didn’t take long for Quark to find him.

“Garak,” he said, “I assume that on the happy occasion of your release, our deal is concluded?”

“Yes. I’ll be taking the shop over fully.”

“Excellent! In that case, there’s just the matter of the bill.” Quark pushed a PADD across the counter. Garak read it through carefully, then pushed it back.

“I’ll pay you half.” Before Quark could protest, Garak leaned across the counter and hissed softly, “That’s me being generous, Quark. Dont make me regret the impulse.”

Quark was many things, but not a fool. He backed off with a wide smile and wide hands. “Of course, for such a valued customer, I can make an exception,” he crooned.

Garak sat back. “Good. Now, I find myself in need of an exceptionally good, exceptionally strong drink.” Having won his point, Garak was content to mollify Quark with an expensive drink order. Besides, Guls knew he needed it. With his enforced asceticism over the last six months, his pent up stress, and his incipient headache, he needed something to get through the next few hours.

“I’ve got just the thing for you,” Quark gushed. “A vintage kanar. It’ll put a real shine in your scales.”

“My treat.” Garak looked up to see Miles take the seat next to him. “To mark the occasion. Beer for me, Quark – and something fruity for Keiko.”

“Coming right up, Chief.” Quark poured the kanar and scuttled away for the rest of the order.

Garak lifted his glass and nodded his thanks. “I must say, I’m almost sad to see my short foray into the world of engineering come to an end.”

Miles shrugged. “I appreciated the help. You did good.”

Garak, unused to sincere praise, took too large a sip of kanar and coughed it up. Miles thumped him on the back.

“Thanks,” coughed Garak.

Miles stood as Quark returned with the drinks. He flashed Garak an impish smile. “It’s just too bad I can’t get you to help me with the weapons and control systems, you being the treacherous, underhanded snake that you are. No offense.”

Garak grinned back. “None taken.”

“Good man. I’ve got to get back to Keiko. I’ll see you around.” Miles grabbed his drinks and disappeared into the crowd.

Garak sipped his kanar. Quark was right: it was strong. He felt it buzzing and bouncing around in his brain. He relaxed a little. Most people avoided Garak, which left him a comfortable space at the bar. A few greeted him, a smaller number even congratulated him on his release, but mostly he was left alone to watch the proceedings. He understood why Quark liked to stay at the bar while his minions attended the tables. Not only did it have an excellent vantage point, it allowed anyone who wanted a word – clandestine or otherwise – to approach without attracting attention.

He had nearly finished his glass of kanar when Sisko appeared and ordered a scotch from Quark. He eyed Garak. “Another?” At Garak’s nod, Sisko motioned to Quark, who moved to get the drinks.

“I thought you’d want to know that the package arrived safely. I decided to send it off through the Phose system after all – they’ve beefed up their security and, for the price, I thought the risk was worth it.”

“Increased security is never a bad idea in uncertain times,” Garak agreed.

“By the way, my father liked the pyjamas and has promsied to send you some of his signature jerky by way of thanks.”

Garak raised his eye ridges in genuine confusion. “Jerky? I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Captain.”

Sisko laughed. “I should enjoy that while I can, then.” He grabbed his scotch from Quark. “Goodnight, Mr. Garak.”

Garak sipped his second glass of kanar, feeling his head lighten and expand. He looked down into its shimmering blue depths, worrying over Julian’s absence. He couldn’t shake the absurd notion that if he left the bar, if he even moved from this spot, that he would never find him, that whatever had started between them would have been merely another fantasy, another dream.

He was disturbed from these thoughts at Quark’s shout.

“Finally!” Quark said, waving a bar cloth angrily. “I need you to check on the dabo tables.”

“Quark, I have a half hour left until my shift starts and you know it!” said Leeta, using her height to stare him down.

“Fine. Whatever. Don’t pay any attention to me, your boss,” he whined.

Leeta huffed and turned her back on him.

“Did you have a good time on Risa?” Garak asked, carefully modulating the anxiety in his tone.

Leeta looked over at him and smiled ruefully. “Eventually. It was a bit of a disaster, though.”

“You and Julian?” Garak said, tensing.

“Oh, no – the Rite of Separation went wonderfully. It was the rest of it – well, it’s a long story.” As she spoke, her eyes moved restlessly around the room.

Garak sympathised.

“And you have somewhere to be – or rather, someone to see,” he said.

Leeta blushed. “Well ...”

“You look beautiful, my dear. Don’t worry.”

“I think I owe half the credit to your clothes. If you want, I’d still be happy to fill in for you at the shop from time to time.”

“I’d like that. Now, don’t let me keep you. I believe I saw Rom on the upper balcony.”

Leeta opened her mouth in surprise, ready to ask how he knew of her interests, then shook her head instead and flashed him a smile before leaving.

With renewed purpose, Garak straightened and scanned the room, his anxiety mounting as the minutes passed with no sign of Julian. Finally he saw him, hesitating at the entrance. Warm relief wrapped itself around him. He saw that Julian, handsome in a cream and brown fitted shirt, had taken the time to shower and change for the party. _For me,_ he amended.

The intensity of Garak’s stare soon caught Julian’s attention. Garak waited, letting Julian make his way to the bar – there was hardly room for them to talk elsewhere.

As Julian came up, Garak carefully controlled his greeting. He wanted to reassure Julian that he had no expectations that their liaison would be acknowledged publicly.

“Doctor,” he greeted, palm held up politely. “I hope you had a good trip?”

“Elim,” Julian purred, holding up his palm properly and then wickedly teasing their fingers together before pulling away. “It was all right, but it lacked the right company.”

“Oh? But Risa is famous for its distractions.”

“I found them somewhat tedious. I’m used to more stimulating company.”

Quark interrupted them. “Ah, doctor,” he said. “What can I get for you?”

“Nothing, Quark. I won’t be staying.”

“Come now, doctor. Don’t mope because Leeta’s dumped you. Let me introduce you to a nice humanoid or two.”

“I thank you for the offer, but I’ve already got a hot date lined up for tonight.” With that, he took Garak’s glass and put it on the counter, then took Garak’s hand. “Shall we go?” he asked.

Garak, surprised, nevertheless allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. “Delighted, my dear.”

Julian put his hand firmly on Garak’s back to guide him from the bar. “Goodnight Quark,” he said over his shoulder to the gaping bartender.

“You know, that was an extremely expensive glass of kanar,” Garak breathed into Julian’s ear as they threaded their way through the crowd.

“You’d had enough – I want you in your right mind for tonight. Besides, you enjoyed the theatrics.”

Garak chuffed soft laughter. “You know me too well.”

As they emerged into the relative quiet of the Promenade, Garak hesitated. “You do realise, of course, that this is going to be all over the station by tomorrow?”

Julian took hold of Garak’s hands, winding their fingers together. “That was the general idea.” he said, pulling Garak towards him.

“Really, Julian. On the Promenade?” Garak protested. But it was a token protest. There was no hesitation as he moved in, enveloped by Julian’s warm embrace, only certainty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, folks! Thanks for reading! As always, kudos and comments are appreciated.
> 
> I have turned this into a series, both to tie it into the previous work and in anticipation of new works in this universe. 
> 
> The next work in the series will pick up a little bit after this one, but in the meantime please read Foundations (not in this series but directly related): It's the sweet and smutty epilogue of Garak and Julian's reunion (picking up right where this fic leaves off) written with my good friend, the talented vocal_fries! 
> 
> After that, I may take a bit of a hiatus and post some light, short, humorous works before perhaps starting on a canon-divergent sequel to this work. Please visit me at tumblr (@zaan-zaan) for updates - I will also take prompts / suggestions for short humorous stories or ideas for future works. I'll also continue to post some random thoughts on fanfic and possibly some short works


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